King's Man

King’s Man

To my holy and blessed master, Abbot Geraldus, in humble obedience to your wish, I send this, the third and last packet of the writings of the false monk Thangbrand. Inauspicious was the day when I first found these pages in our library! May I be forgiven for reading them with my sinful eyes, for I was urged on by my imagination and impatience.

Here I have found false witness artfully woven into a tale intended to beguile the credulous. This serpent in our bosom levels vile and wicked allegations against our brothers in Christ, and shamelessly admits piracy and the desecration of hallowed relic. Even when among the schismatics of the East he cannot restrain his viper's tongue.

Nothing has grieved me more than to learn that this false monk made a journey to the Holy Land, a pilgrimage which is the greatest desire of those who are as poor and unworthy as I. Yet he besmirches his witness with profane mistrust, and thereby seeks to undermine the faith of all those who believe in the Incarnation of the Word. As scripture avers, to an evil, unbelieving man, the truth becomes a lie.

His spew of corruption is the more disturbing, for it touches on high matters of state. Questioned is the very ascent to the throne of England itself, and his words must surely be judged treasonable by those who have competence in these matters.

We will speak no further of this matter, but will leave the pious labours of the faithful to be rewarded and paid for by the Just Judge.

Will there ever be an end to the deceit and mendacity of this impostor? I pray for his salvation in the fear of God, for is it not said that even one sparrow cannot fall into a snare without his providence, and that when God wills the end may be good?

Aethelred

Sacristan and Librarian

Written in the month of January in the Year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-two

THE EMPEROR WAS pretending to be a whale. He put his head under water and filled his mouth, then came back up to the surface and squirted little spouts across the palace plunge pool. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, not knowing whether to feel disdainful or sympathetic. He was, after all, an old man. Past seventy years of age, he would be relishing the touch of warm water on his blotchy skin as well as the feeling of weightlessness. He was afflicted with a bloating disease which had puffed up his body and limbs so grossly that he found walking very painful. Only the week before I had seen him return to the palace so exhausted after one of the endless ceremonials that he had collapsed into the arms of an attendant the moment the great bronze doors closed behind him. Today was the festival the Christians call Good Friday, so in the afternoon there was to be yet another imperial ceremony and it would last for hours. I decided that the emperor deserved his moment of relaxation, though his whalelike antics in the pool might have surprised his subjects as the majority of them considered him to be their God's representative on earth.

I shifted the heavy axe on my shoulder. There was a damp patch where the haft had rested on my scarlet tunic. Beads of sweat were trickling down under the rim of my iron helmet with its elaborate gold inlay, and the heat in the pool room was making me drowsy. I struggled to stay alert. As a member of the Hetaira, the imperial household troops, my duty was to protect the life of the Basileus Romanus III, ruler of Byzantium, and Equal of the Apostles. With five hundred fellow members of his personal Life Guard, the palace Varangians, I had sworn to keep the emperor safe from his enemies, and he paid us handsomely to do so. He trusted us more than his fellow countrymen, and with good reason.

At the far end of the baths were clustered a group of the emperor's staff, five or six of them. Sensibly they were maintaining their distance from their master, not just to give him privacy, but also because his advancing illness made him very tetchy. The Basileus had become notoriously short-tempered. The slightest wrong word or gesture could make him fly into a rage. During the three years I had served at the palace, I had seen him change from being even-handed and generous to waspish and mean. Men accustomed to receiving rich gifts in appreciation from the imperial bounty were now ignored or sharply criticised. Fortunately the Basileus did not yet treat his Life Guard in a similar fashion, and we still gave him our complete loyalty. We played no part in the courtiers' constant plotting and scheming as various factions sought to gain advantage. The ordinary members of the guard did not even speak their language. Our senior officers were patrician Greeks, but the rank and file were recruited from the northern lands and we continued to speak Norse among ourselves. A court official with the title of the Grand Interpreter for the Hetaira was supposed to translate for the guardsmen, but the post was in name only, another high-sounding title in a court mesmerised by precedence and ceremonial.

'Guardsman!' The shout broke into my thoughts. One man in the group was beckoning to me. I recognised the Keeper of the Imperial Inkwell. The post, despite its pompous name, was one of real importance. Officially the keeper proffered the bottle of purple ink whenever the Basileus was ready to sign an official document. In reality he acted as secretary of the emperor's private office. The post gave him open access to the imperial presence, a privilege denied even to the highest ministers, who had to make a formal appointment before being brought before the Basileus.

The keeper repeated his gesture. I glanced across at the Basileus. Romanus was still wallowing and spouting in the pool, eyes closed, happy in his warm and watery world. The pool had recently been deepened in its centre, yet was still shallow enough for a man to stand upright and keep his head above the surface. There seemed no danger there. I strode over towards the keeper, who held out a parchment. I caught a glimpse of the imperial signature in purple ink even as the keeper indicated that I was to take the document to the adjacent room, a small office where the notaries waited.

It was not unusual for a guardsman to act as a footman. The palace officials were so preoccupied with their own dignity that they found it demeaning to carry out the simplest tasks like opening a door or carrying a scroll. So I took the parchment, cast another quick look over my shoulder and walked to the door. The Basileus was still blissfully enjoying his swim.

IN THE NEXT room I found the Orphanotrophus waiting. He was in charge of the city orphanage, an institution financed from the royal purse. Once again the title was no reflection of his real importance. John the Orphanotrophus was the most powerful man in the empire, excluding only the Basileus. Thanks to a combination of raw intellect and shrewd application, John had worked his way up through the various grades of the imperial hierarchy and was prime minister of the empire in all but name. Feared by all, he was a thin man who had a gaunt face with deep-sunk eyes under startlingly black eyebrows. He was also a beardless one, a eunuch.

I came to attention in front of him, but did not salute. Only the Basileus and the immediate members of the imperial family warranted a guardsman's salute, and John the Orphanotrophus was certainly not born to the purple. His family came from Paphalagonia on the Black Sea coast, and it was rumoured that the family's first profession when they came to Constantinople was to run a money exchange. Some said that they had been forgers.

When I handed over the parchment, the Orphanotrophus glanced through it, and then said to me slowly, pronouncing each word with exaggerated care, 'Take this to the logothete of finance.'

I stood my ground and replied in Greek, 'My apologies, your excellency. I am on duty. I cannot leave the imperial presence.'

The Orphanotrophus raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, a guardsman who speaks Greek,' he murmured. 'The palace is finally becoming civilised.'

'Perhaps someone could call a dekanos, ' I suggested. 'That is their duty, to carry messages.' I saw I had made a mistake.

'Yes, and you should do yours,' the Orphanotrophus retorted acidly.

Smarting at the rebuff, I turned on my heel and marched back to the baths. As I entered the long chamber with its high, domed ceiling and walls patterned with mosaics of dolphins and waves, I knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. The Basileus was still in the water, but now he was lying on his back, waving feebly with his arms. Only his corpulence was keeping him from sinking. The attendants who had previously been in the room were nowhere to be seen. I dropped my axe to the marble floor, wrenched off my helmet and sprinted for the pool. 'Alarm! Alarm!' I bellowed as I ran. 'Guardsmen to me!' In a few strides I was at the edge of the pool and, fully clothed, dived in and swam as fast as I could manage towards the Basileus. Silently I thanked my own God, Odinn, that we Norse learn how to swim when we are still young.

The Basileus seemed unaware of my presence as I reached him. He was barely moving and occasionally his head slipped underwater. I put one hand under his chin, lowered my legs until I could touch the bottom of the pool, and began to tow him towards the edge, taking care to keep his head on my shoulder, clear of the water. He was limp in my arms, and his scalp against my chin was bald except for a few straggly hairs.

'Guardsmen to me!' I shouted again. Then in Greek I called out, 'Fetch a doctor!'

This time my calls were answered. Several staff members -scribes, attendants, courtiers — came running into the room and clustered at the edge of the pool. Someone knelt down to grab the Basileus under the armpits and haul him dripping out of the water. But the rescue was clumsy and slow. The Basileus lay on the marble edge of the pool, looking more than ever like a whale, a beached and dying one this time. I clambered out and pushed aside the courtiers.

'Help me lift him,' I said.

'In Thor's name what's going on?' said a voice.

A decurion, the petty officer of my watch, had finally arrived. He glowered so fiercely at the gawking courtiers that they fell back. The two of us picked up the emperor's limp body and carried him towards a marble bench. One of the bath attendants had the wit to spread a layer of towels over it before we laid down the old man, who was moving feebly. The decurion looked round and ripped a brocaded silk gown off the shoulders of a courtier and laid it over the emperor's nakedness.

'Let me through, please'.

This was one of the palace physicians. A short, paunchy man, he lifted up the emperor's eyelids with his stubby fingers. I could see that he was nervous. He pulled his hands back as if he had been scalded. He was probably frightened that the Basileus would expire under his touch. But the emperor's eyes stayed open and he shifted his head slightly to look around him.

At that moment there was a stir among the watching courtiers, and their circle parted to allow a woman through. It was Zoe, the empress. She must have been summoned from the gynaeceum, the women's quarters of the palace. It was the first time I had seen her close to, and I was struck by her poise. Despite her age she held herself with great dignity. She must have been at least fifty years old and had probably never been a beauty, but her face retained that fine-boned structure which hinted at aristocratic descent. She was the daughter and granddaughter of emperors, and had the haughty manners to prove it.

Zoe swept through the crowd, and stepped up to within an arm's length of her husband where he lay on the marble slab. Her face showed no emotion as she gazed down at the emperor, who was ashen pale and breathing with difficulty. For a brief moment she just stared. Then, without a word, she turned and walked out of the room.

The courtiers avoided looking at one another. Everyone, including myself, knew that there was no love between the emperor and his wife. The previous Basileus, Constantine, had insisted that they marry. Zoe was Constantine's favoured daughter, and in the last days of his reign he had searched for a suitable husband for her from among the ranks of Constantinople's aristocracy. Father and daughter had both wanted to ensure the family succession, though Zoe was past childbearing age. That had not prevented her and Romanus when they ascended the throne together from attempting to found their own dynasty. Romanus had dosed himself with huge amounts of aphrodisiacs — the reason for his hair loss, it was claimed — while his elderly consort hung herself with fertility charms and consulted quacks and charlatans who proposed more and more grotesque ways of ensuring pregnancy. When all their efforts failed, the couple slid into a mutual dislike. Romanus had taken a mistress and Zoe had been bundled off to the gynaeceum, frustrated and resentful.

But that was not the whole story. Zoe had also acquired a lover, not two years since. Several members of the guard had come across the two of them coupling together and turned a blind eye. Their tact had not been out of respect for the empress — she conducted her affair openly — but because her consort was the younger brother of John the Orphanotrophus. Here was an area where high politics mingled with ambition and lust, and it was better left alone.

'Stand back!' ordered the decurion.

He took up his position a spear's length from the Basileus's bald head, and as a reflex I stationed myself by the emperor's feet and also came to attention. My axe was still lying somewhere on the marble floor, but I was wearing a dagger at my belt and I dropped my hand to its hilt. The doctor paced nervously up and down, wringing his hands with worry. Suddenly Romanus gave a deep moan. He raised his head a fraction from the towel that was his pillow and made a slight gesture with his right hand. It was as if he was beckoning someone closer. Not knowing whom he gestured to, no one dared move. The awe and majesty of the imperial presence still had a grip on the spectators. The emperor's gaze shifted slowly, passing across the faces of his watching courtiers. He seemed to be trying to say something, to be pleading. His throat moved but no sounds emerged. Then his eyes closed and his head fell back and rolled to one side. He began to pant, his breath coming in short shallow gasps. Suddenly, the breathing paused, and his mouth fell open. Out flowed a thick, dark brown substance, and after two more choking breaths, he expired.

I stood rigidly to attention. There were the sounds of running feet, of tumult, and in the distance a wailing and crying as news of the emperor's death spread among the palace staff. I took no notice. Until a new Basileus was crowned, the duty of the guard was to protect the body of the dead emperor.

'Thorgils, you look like the village idiot standing there in your soaking uniform. Get back to the guardroom and report to the duty officer.'

The instructions were delivered in Norse and I recognised the voice of Halfdan, my company commander. A beefy veteran, Halfdan had served in the Life Guard for close on ten years. He should have retired by now, after amassing a small fortune from his salary, but he liked the life of a guardsman and had cut his ties with his Danish homeland, so he had nowhere else to go.

'Tell him that everything is under control in the imperial presence. You might suggest that he places a curfew on the palace.'

I squelched away, pausing to collect my helmet and the spiked axe which someone had obligingly picked up off the floor and leaned against the wall. My route to the guardroom lay through a labyrinth of passages, reception rooms and courtyards. Romanus III could have died in any one of his palaces — they all had swimming pools - but he had chosen to expire in the largest and most sprawling of them, the Great Palace. Standing close to the tip of the peninsula of Constantinople, the Great Palace had been extended and remodelled so many times by its imperial occupants that it had turned into a bewildering maze of chambers and anterooms. Erecting ever grander buildings was a fascination bordering on mania for each occupant of the purple throne. Every Basileus wanted to immortalise his rule by leaving at least one extravagant structure, whether a new church, a monastery, a huge palace, or some ostentatious public building. Romanus had been busily squandering millions of gold pieces on an immense new church to the mother of his God, though it seemed to me that she already had more than enough churches and monasteries to her name. Romanus's new church was to be dedicated to her as Mary the Celebrated, and what with its surrounding gardens and walkways and fountains — and the constant changes of design, which meant pulling down half-finished buildings — the project had run so far over budget that Romanus had been obliged to raise a special tax to pay for the construction. The church was not yet finished and I suspected it never would be. I surprised myself by realising how easily I was already thinking of Romanus in the past tense.

'Change into a dry uniform and join the detail on the main gate,' the duty officer ordered when I reported to him. No more than twenty years old, he was almost as edgy as the physician who had attended the dying emperor. A Greek from one of Constantinople's leading families, his family would have paid handsomely to buy his commission in the Life Guard. Merely by placing him inside the walls of the palace, they hoped he might attract the attention of the Basileus and gain preferment. Now their investment would be wasted if a new Basileus decided, out of concern for his own safety, to replace all the Greek officers. It was another deception so characteristic of palace life. Byzantine society still pretended that the Hetaira was Greek. Their sons prided themselves on being officers of the guard, and they dressed up in uniforms which denoted the old palace regiments — the Excubia, the Numeri, the Scholae and others - but when it came to real work our Basileus had trusted only us, the foreigners, his palace Varangians.

I joined twenty of my comrades at the main gate. They had already slammed the doors shut without asking permission of the keeper of the gate, whose duty it was to supervise the opening of the main gate at dawn, close it again at noon, and then reopen it for a few hours in the early evening. But today the death of the emperor had removed his authority and the keeper was at a loss to know what to do. The decurion decided the matter for him. He was refusing to let anyone in or out.

Even as I arrived, there was a great hubbub outside the gate, and I could hear thunderous knocking and loud, impatient shouts.

'Glad you've got here, Thorgils,' said the guard commander. 'Maybe you can tell me what those wild men out there want.'

I listened carefully. 'I think you had better let them in,' I said. 'It sounds as though you've got the Great Patriarch outside, and he's demanding admittance.'

'The Great Patriarch? That black-clad old goat,' grumbled the guard commander, who was a staunch Old Believer. 'Lads, open the side door and allow the monks through. But hold your breath. They don't wash very often.'

A moment later a very angry group of monks, all with chest-length beards and black gowns, stormed through the gap between the doors, glared at us, and hurried off down the corridor with a righteous-sounding slap of sandals and the clatter of their wooden staffs on the marble floor slabs. In their midst I saw the white-bearded figure of Alexis of the Studius, the supreme religious authority of the empire.

'Wonder what's brought them down from their monastery in such a hurry,' muttered a Varangian as he pushed shut the door and dropped the bar back in place.

His question was answered later, when we came off duty and returned to the guardroom. Half a dozen of my colleagues were lounging there, smirking.

'The old bitch has already got herself a new husband. The moment she was sure that old Romanus was definitely on his way out, she sent someone to fetch the high priest.'

'I know, we let him and his crows in.'

'Well, she certainly didn't summon them to give her beloved husband the last rites. Even while the priests were on their way, the old lady called an emergency meeting of her advisers, including that foxy creep, the Orphanotrophus. She told them that she wanted her fancy-boy to be the new Basileus.'

'Not the handsome rattle-brain!'

'She had it all worked out. She said that, by right of imperial descent, she represented the continuity of the state, and that it was in the best interests of the empire if "my darling Michael", as she called him, took the throne with her.'

'You must be joking! How do you know all this?'

The guardsman gave a snort of derision. 'The Orphanotrophus had ordered four of us to act as close escort for the empress in case there was an attempt on her life. It was a ruse, of course. When the other courtiers showed up to dispute the idea of Michael's succession, they saw the guard standing there, and came to the conclusion that the matter had already been settled.'

'So what happened when the high priest arrived?'

'He plunged straight into the wedding ceremony for the old woman and her lover-boy. She paid him a fat bribe, of course, and within the hour they were man and wife.'

This bizarre story was interrupted by the arrival of another of our Greek officers, who scuttled into the room, anxiously demanding a full sovereign's escort. We were to don our formal uniforms and accompany him to the Triklinium, the grand audience chamber. He insisted that there was not a moment to be lost.

Thirty of us formed up and marched through the passageways to the enormous hall, floored with mosaics, hung with silk banners and decorated with rich icons, where the Basileus formally received his ministers, foreign ambassadors and other dignitaries. Two ornate thrones stood on a dais at the far end of the hall and our officer led us straight to our positions — to stand in a semicircle at the back of the dais, looking out across the audience chamber. A dozen equerries and the marshal of the Triklinium were busily making sure that everything was in order for the arrival of their majesties. Within moments the Empress Zoe and Michael, her new husband, entered the room and hurried up to the thrones. Close behind came the Orphanotrophus, some high-ranking priests, and a gaggle of courtiers associated with the empress's faction at court. Zoe' and Michael stepped up on the dais, our Greek officer hissed a command, and we, the members of the Life Guard, obediently raised our axes vertically in front of us in a formal salute. The empress and emperor turned to face down the hall. Just as they were about to sit down there came a tense moment. By custom the guard acknowledges the presence of the Basileus as he takes his seat upon the throne. As the emperor lowers himself on to his seat, the guards transfer their axes from the salute to their right shoulders. It is a signal that all is well and that the business of the empire is continuing as normal. Now, as Zoe and Michael were about to settle on their throne cushions, my comrades and I glanced at one another questioningly. For the space of a heartbeat nothing happened. I sensed our Greek officer stiffen with anxiety, and then, raggedly, the guard placed their axes on their shoulders. I could almost hear the sigh of relief from Zoe's retinue.

That crisis safely past, the proceedings quickly took on an air of farce. Zoe's people must have sent word throughout the palace, summoning the senior ministers and their staff, who came in one by one. Many, I suspected, arrived thinking that they would be paying their respects to the body of their dead emperor. Instead they were confronted with the astonishing spectacle of his widow already remarried and seated beside a new husband nearly young enough to be her grandson. No wonder several of the new arrivals faltered on the threshold, dumbfounded. The matronly empress and her youthful consort were clutching the emblems of state in their jewelled hands, their glittering robes had been carefully arranged by their pages, and on Zoe's face was an expression which showed that she expected full homage. From the back of the dais I watched the courtiers' eyes take in the scene - the aloof empress, her boyish husband, the waiting cluster of high officials, and the sinister, brooding figure of John the Orphanotrophus, Michael's brother, noting how each new arrival responded. After a brief moment of hesitation and calculation, the high ministers and courtiers came forward to the twin thrones, bowed deeply to the empress, then knelt and kissed the ring of her bright-eyed husband, who, less than six hours earlier, had been known as nothing more than her illicit lover.

The next day we buried Romanus. Overnight someone — it must have been the supremely efficient Orphanotrophus — arranged for his swollen corpse to be dressed in official robes of purple silk and laid out on a bier. Within an hour of sunrise the funeral procession had already assembled with everyone in their correct place according to rank, and the palace's main gates were thrown open. I was one of the one hundred guards who marched, according to tradition, immediately before and after the dead Basileus as we emerged on to the Mese, the broad main avenue which bisects the city. I was surprised to see how many of the citizens of Constantinople had left their beds this early. Word of the Basileus's sudden death must have spread very fast. Those who stood at the front of the dense crowd lining the route could see for themselves the waxen skin and swollen face of the dead emperor, for his head and hands had been left uncovered. Once or twice I heard someone shout out, 'Poisoned!', but for the most part the crowd remained eerily silent. I did not hear a single expression of sorrow or regret for his passing. Romanus III, I realised, had not been popular in Constantinople.

At the great Forum of Amastration we wheeled left, and half a mile further on the cortege entered the Via Triumphalis. Normally an emperor processed along this broad avenue to the cheers of the crowd, at the head of his victorious troops, as he displayed captured booty and files of defeated enemy in chains. Now Romanus was carried in the opposite direction in a gloomy silence broken only by the creaking wheels of the carriage which carried his bier, the sound of the horses' hooves and the muted footfalls of hundreds upon hundreds of the ordinary citizens of Constantinople, who, simply out of morbid curiosity, joined in behind our procession. They went with us all the way to the enormous unfinished church of Mary the Celebrated that was Romanus's great project, and where he was now the first person to benefit from his own extravagance. Here the priests hurriedly placed him into the green and white sarcophagus which Romanus had selected for himself, following another curious imperial custom that the Basileus should choose his own tomb on the day of his accession.

Then, as the crowd was dispersing in a mood of sombre apathy, our cortege briskly retraced its steps to the palace, for there was no a moment to be lost.

'Two parades in one day, but it will be worth it,' said Halfdan cheerfully as he shrugged off the dark sash he had worn during the funeral and replaced it with one that glittered with gold thread. 'Thank Christ it's only a short march this afternoon, and anyhow we would have to be doing it anyway as it's Palm Sunday.'

Halfdan, like several members of the guard, was part-Christian and part-pagan. Superficially he subscribed to the religion of the White Christ — and swore by him — and he attended services at the new church to St Olaf recently built near our regimental headquarters down by the Golden Horn, Constantinople's main harbour. But he also wore Thor's hammer as an amulet on a leather strap around his neck, and when he was in his cups he often announced that when he died he would much prefer to feast and fight in Odinn's Valholl than finish up as a bloodless being with wings like a fluffy dove in the Christians' heaven.

'Thorgils, how come you speak Greek so well?' The question came from one of the Varangians who had been at the palace gate the previous day. He was a recent recruit into the guard.

'He licked up a drop of Fafnir's blood, that's how,' Halfdan interjected. 'Give Thorgils a couple of weeks and he could learn any language, even if it's bird talk.'

I ignored his ponderous attempt at humour. 'I was made to study Greek when I was a youngster,' I said, 'in a monastery in Ireland.'

'You were once a monk?' the man asked, surprised. 'I thought you were a devotee of Odinn. At least that is what I've heard.'

'I am,' I told him. 'Odinn watched over me when I was among the monks and got me away from them.'

'Then you understand this stuff with the holy pictures they carry about whenever we're on parade, the relics and bits of saints and all the rest of it.'

'Some of it. But the Christianity I was made to study is different from the one here in Constantinople. It's the same God, of course, but a different way of worshipping him. I must admit that until I came here, I had never even heard of half of the saints they honour.'

'Not surprising,' grumbled the Varangian. 'Down in the market last week a huckster tried to sell me a human bone. Said it came from the right arm of St Demetrios, and I should buy it because I was a soldier and St Demetrios was a fighting man. He claimed the relic would bring me victory in any fight.'

'I hope you didn't buy it.'

'Not a chance. Someone in the crowd warned me that the huckster had sold so many arm and leg bones from St Demetrios that the holy martyr must have had more limbs than a centipede.' He gave a wry laugh.

Later that afternoon I sympathised with the soldier as we marched off for the acclamation of our young new Basileus, who was to be pronounced as Michael IV before a congregation of city dignitaries in the church of Hagia Sophia. We shuffled rather than marched towards the church because there were so many slow-moving priests in the column, all holding up pictures of their saints painted on wooden boards, tottering under heavy banners and pennants embroidered with holy symbols, or carrying precious relics of their faith sealed in gold and silver caskets. Just in front of me was their most venerated memento, a fragment from the wooden cross on which their Christ had hung at the time of his death, and I wondered if perhaps Odinn, the master of disguise, had impersonated their Jesus. The Father of the Gods had also hung on a wooden tree, his side pierced with a spear as he sought to gain world knowledge. It was a pity, I thought to myself, that the Christians were so certain that theirs was the only true faith. If they were a little more tolerant, they would have admitted that other religions had their merits, too. Old Believers were perfectly willing to let people follow their own gods, and we did not seek to impose our ideas on others. But at least the Christians of Constantinople were not as bigoted as their brethren further north, who were busy stamping out what they considered pagan practices. In Constantinople life was tolerant enough for there to be a mosque in the sixth district where the Saracens could worship and several synagogues for the Jews.

A hundred paces from the doors of Hagia Sophia, we, the members of the guard, came to a halt while the rest of the procession solemnly walked on and entered the church. The priests had no love for the Varangians, and it was customary for us to wait outside until the service was concluded. Presumably it was thought that no one would make an attempt on the life of the Basileus inside such a sacred building, but I had my doubts.

Halfdan let my company stand at ease, and we stood and chatted idly among ourselves, waiting for the service to end and to escort the acclaimed Basileus back to the palace. It was then that I noticed a young man dressed in the characteristic hooded gown of a middle-class citizen, a junior clerk by the look of him. He was approaching various members of the guard to try to speak to them. He must have been asking his questions in Greek, for they either shook their heads uncomprehendingly or ignored him. Eventually someone pointed in my direction and he came over towards me. He introduced himself as Constantine Psellus, and said he was a student in the city, studying to enter the imperial service. I judged him to be no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, about half my age.

'I am planning to write a history of the empire,' he told me, 'a chapter for each emperor, and I would very much appreciate any details of the last days of Basileus Romanus.'

I liked his formal politeness and was impressed by his air of quick intelligence, so decided to help him out.

'I was present when he drowned,' I said, and briefly sketched what I had witnessed.

'You say he drowned?' commented the young man gently.

'Yes, that seems to have been the case. Though he actually expired when he was laid out on the bench. Maybe he had a heart attack. He was old enough, after all.'

'I saw his corpse yesterday when it was being carried in the funeral procession, and I thought it looked very strange, so puffed up and grey.'

'Oh, he had had that appearance for quite some time.'

'You don't think he died from some other cause, the effects of a slow-acting poison maybe?' the young man suggested as calmly as if he had been discussing a change in the weather. 'Or perhaps you were deliberately called away from the baths so someone could hold the emperor underwater for a few moments to bring on a heart attack.'

The theory of poisoning had been discussed in the guardroom ever since the emperor's death, and some of us had gone as far as debating whether it was hellebore or some other poison which was being fed to Romanus. But it was not our job to enquire further: our responsibility was to defend him from violent physical attack, the sort you block with a shield or deflect with a shrewd axe blow, not the insidious assault of a lethal drug in his food or drink. The Basileus employed food-tasters for that work, though they could be bribed to act a sham, and any astute assassin would make sure that the poison was slow-acting enough for its effect not to be detected until too late.

But the young man's other suggestion, that I had been lured away to leave Romanus unguarded, alarmed me. If that was the case, then the Keeper of the Inkwell was certainly implicated in the Basileus's death, and perhaps the Orphanotrophus as well. I remembered how he had tried to send me on to the logothete of finance with the parchment. That would have delayed me even more. The thought that I might have been a dupe in the assassination of the Basileus brought a chill to my spine. If true, I was in real danger. Any guardsman found to be negligent in his duty to protect the Basileus was executed by his company commander, usually by public beheading. More than that, if Romanus had indeed been murdered, I was still a potential witness, and that meant I was a likely target for elimination by the culprits. Someone as powerful as the Orphanotrophus could easily have me killed, in a tavern brawl, for example.

Suddenly I was very frightened.

'I think I hear the chanting of the priests,' said Psellus, interrupting my thoughts and fidgeting slightly. Maybe he realised he had gone too far in his theorising, and was close to treason. 'They must have opened the doors of Hagia Sophia, getting ready for the emergence of our new Basileus. It's time for me to let you go. Thank you for your information. You have been most helpful.' And he slipped away into the crowd.

We took up our positions around Michael IV, who was mounted on a superb sorrel horse, one of the best in the royal stables. I remembered how Romanus had been a great judge of horseflesh and had built up a magnificent stud farm, though he had been too sick to enjoy riding. Now I had to admit that the youthful Michael, though he came from a very plebeian background, looked truly imperial in the saddle. Perhaps that was what Zoe had seen in him from the beginning. Halfdan had told me how he had been on duty when Zoe' had first gazed on her future lover. 'You would have been an utter dolt not to have noticed her reaction. She couldn't take her eyes off him. It was the Orphanotrophus who introduced him to her. He brought Michael into the audience chamber when Zoe and Romanus were holding an imperial reception, and led him right up to the twin thrones. Old Romanus was gracious enough, but Zoe looked at the young man as if she wanted to eat him on the spot. He was good looking, all right, fresh-faced and ruddy-cheeked, likely to blush like a girl. I reckon the Orphanotrophus knew what he was doing. Set it all up.'

'Didn't Romanus notice, if it was that obvious?' I asked.

'No. The old boy barely used to look at the empress by then. Kept looking anywhere except in her direction, as though her presence gave him a pain.'

I mulled over the conversation as we marched back to the Grand Palace, entered the great courtyard and the gates were closed behind us. Our new Basileus dismounted, paused for a moment while his courtiers and officials formed up in two lines, and then walked down between them to the applause and smiles of his retinue before entering the palace. I noted that the Basileus was unescorted, which seemed very unusual. Even stranger was the fact that the courtiers broke ranks and began to hurry into the palace behind the Basileus, almost like a mob. Halfdan astonished me by rushing off in their wake, all discipline gone. So did the guardsmen around me, and I joined them in pushing and jostling as if we were a crowd of spectators leaving the hippodrome at the end of the games.

It was unimaginable. All the stiffness and formality of court life had evaporated. The crowd of us, ministers, courtiers, advisers, even priests, all flooded into the great Trikilinium. There, seated up on the dais, was our young new emperor, smiling down at us. On each side were two slaves holding small strongboxes. As I watched, one of the slaves tilted the coffer he held and a stream of gold coins poured out, falling into the emperor's lap. Michael reached down, seized a fistful of the coins, and flung them high into the air above the crowd. I gaped in surprise. The shower of gold coins, each one of them worth six months' wages for a skilled man, glittered and flashed before plummeting towards the upstretched hands. A few coins were caught as they fell, but most tumbled on to the marble floor, landing with a distinct ringing sound. Men dropped to their hands and knees to pick up the coins, even as the emperor dipped his hand into his lap and flung another golden cascade over our heads. Now I understood why Halfdan had been so quick off the mark. My company commander had shrewdly elbowed his way to a spot where the arc of bullion was thickest, and was clawing up the golden bounty.

I, too, crouched down and began to gather up the coins. But at the very moment that my fingers closed around the first gold coin, I was thinking to myself that I would be wise to find some way of resigning from the Life Guard without attracting attention before it was too late.

TWO

THE THOUGHT THAT Romanus had been murdered nagged at me in the weeks that followed. I brooded on the possible consequences of my unwitting participation in a regicide and began to take precautions for my personal safety. I only ate mess food prepared by the army cooks, and I did not leave the barracks unless I was on duty or in the company of two or three of my colleagues, and then I only visited places I knew to be safe. Had my companions realised my fears, they would have scoffed at my timidity. Compared with the other cities I had known — London for example — Constantinople was remarkably peaceful and well run. Its governor, the city eparch, maintained an efficient police force, while a host of civic employees patrolled the marketplaces, checking on fair trade, cleanliness and orderly behaviour. Only at night, when the streets were given over to prostitutes and thieves, would my colleagues have bothered to carry weapons to defend themselves. But I was not reassured. If I was to be silenced for what I had witnessed in the imperial swimming pool, then the attack would come when I was least expecting it.

The one person to whom I confessed my fears was my friend Pelagia. She ran a bread stall on the Mese, and I had been seeing her twice a week to practise my conversational Greek because the language I had learned in the Irish monastery was antiquated and

closer, coincidentally, to the language spoken in the imperial court than koine, the language of the common people. An energetic, shrewd woman with the characteristic dark hair and sallow skin of someone native to the city, Pelagia had already provided me with a lesson in the tortuous ways of Byzantine thinking, which often succeeded in extracting advantage from calamity. She had started her business just days after her husband, a baker, had burned to death in a blaze which had started when the bread oven cracked. A city ordinance banned bakeries from operating in close proximity to town houses, otherwise the accident would have sent the entire district up in flames. The ashes of the fire were barely cold before Pelagia had gone to her husband's former business competitors and worked on their sympathy. She coaxed them into agreeing to supply her stall at a favourable discount, and by the time I met her she was well on her way to being a wealthy woman. Pelagia kept me up to date with all the latest city rumours about palace politics — a favourite topic among her many clients — and, more important, she had a sister who worked as a seamstress for the empress Zoe.

'No one doubts that Zoe had a hand in Romanus's death, though it's less certain that she actively organised what happened in the bathhouse,' Pelagia told me. We had met in the spacious rooms of her third-floor apartment. Astonishing to people like myself from lands where a two-storeyed building is unusual, many of Constantinople's houses had four or even five floors. 'My sister tells me that poisons of every sort are readily available in the empress's quarters. They are not even kept locked up for safety. Zoe has a mania for creating new perfumes and unguents. Some say it's a hangover from the days when she was trying to rejuvenate herself and bear a child. She keeps a small army of women servants grinding, mixing and distilling different concoctions, and several of the ingredients are decidedly poisonous. One young girl fainted the other day merely from inhaling the fumes from one of the brews.'

'So you think Zoe was the poisoner, but not the person who arranged for Romanus to have an accident during his swim,' I asked.

'It's hard to say. If the empress did plot with her lover to do away with Romanus and rule the empire through him, she's been disappointed. Michael, my sister tells me, has been acting as if he alone is in charge. She is not consulted on matters of state - they are all taken care of by his brother, the Orphanotrophus. So if Zoe had nothing to do with the murder, she may well bring an accusation against the new Basileus in order to overthrow him. Either way, you are in real danger. If there is an enquiry, the investigating tribunal will call witnesses to Romanus's death, and their usual way of interrogating witnesses is to torture them.'

'I don't follow you,' I said. 'Surely if there was a conspiracy between Zoe and Michael, neither party would want to risk it being discovered. And if only Michael is guilty, and perhaps the Orphanotrophus as well, then Zoe would be unlikely to harm the man with whom she is infatuated.'

'You don't know what a silly and capricious woman Zoe' can be, despite her age and position,' Pelagia replied witheringly. 'My sister has been talking to some of the people who look after Zoe's wardrobe. Apparently Zoe feels that she is a woman scorned. Michael has banished her to the gynaeceum, and doesn't even visit her bedchamber as often as when she was still married to Romanus. Now there is even a rumour that Michael has some sort of incurable sickness and that the Orphanotrophus deliberately hid that fact from Zoe when he first introduced him to her.'

The intrigues of the court were beyond normal comprehension, I thought to myself. Never would I be able to untangle the subterfuges of those who seek or wield absolute power. It would be better for me to make myself as unobtrusive as possible and place my trust in the protection of Odinn, the arch-deceiver. I promised myself that next time my Christianised comrades in the guard went off to pray in the new church to St Olaf, I would find a quiet spot and make an offering to the All Wise. Perhaps the God of Cargoes would show me a way out of my predicament.

It turned out that Odinn answered even before I made the sacrifice. But first he gave me a fright I was to remember for the rest of my days in the service of the Basileus.

Early in June Pelagia told me that a report was sweeping the city that a force of Rus were about to attack Constantinople. A war fleet had been sighted making its way down the great river which leads from the kingdom of Kiev.

'Of course you know that route yourself, Thorgils. That's the way you came to Constantinople,' Pelagia said. She was standing in the shade of the portico behind her bread stall, chatting with a group of her fellow traders while her assistant sold the loaves off the counter.

'No, I came by a different route, along another river further east. But it's much the same thing: all paths lead to Constantinople.'

'Just as all Rus are much the same thing — violent, hairy barbarians who worship idols.' The jibe came from one of Pelagia's fellow stallholders, another bread-seller who had the chirpy swagger of a true city-dweller. Over his stall hung a crudely sketched picture of the White Christ issuing loaves and fishes to the multitude, so I knew him to be a vehement Christian.

'Well, not exactly,' I corrected him mildly. 'The people you lump together as Rus are all sorts and types - those who come from Kiev are Christians and acknowledge your own Great Patriarch. Others like myself are from the lands of the northmen and, while we follow our own gods, we come to trade not to fight. Half your churches would be in darkness if those so-called barbarians didn't bring beeswax from the northern forests for you to turn into candles to illuminate your painted saints while you adore them.'

The stallholder was not to be placated. 'This city can defend itself whatever that scum throws at it. You would have thought they had learned their lesson last time.' He saw I had missed his point. 'My grandfather loved telling me how we dealt with those ignorant savages the last time they dared to assault the Queen of Cities. They showed up with their fleet expecting to swarm in and put the place to the sack. But Blessed Mary and our Basileus protected us. The enemy never even got past the city walls -much too strong for them. So they muddled about, went here and there in their stupid, mindless way, raiding and raping in small settlements along the coast. But all the while our Basileus was biding his time. He waited until the Rus were off guard, and then sent out our ships and caught them fair and square. We burned them to cinders with the Fire. They never knew what hit them. Less than a hundred of them returned home. It was a massacre. My grandfather told me that burned bodies were washing up on the shore, and you could smell the stench of burned flesh . . .' At that moment he must have remembered how Pelagia's husband had died, for his voice trailed away in embarrassment and he looked down at his feet before finding an excuse to turn away and attend to the display on his stall.

I was about to ask Pelagia what the man had meant by 'the Fire', when I heard my name called out, and turned to see Halfdan pushing through the crowd towards me. Close behind him was a palace messenger.

'There you are, Thorgils. Thought I might find you here with Pelagia,' Halfdan exclaimed, though without the innuendo that normally accompanied his mention of Pelagia's name. 'There's some sort of flap on at the palace, and it involves you. You are to report at once to the office of the Orphanotrophus. It's urgent.'

Panic gripped me as I glanced across at Pelagia. There was no mistaking the alarm in her expression too.

I quickly followed the messenger to the palace. He brought me to the office of the Orphanotrophus, where I noticed that the emperor's eunuch brother had appropriated for himself the chambers immediately beside the staterooms of the Basileus. My colleagues who were on duty glanced at me curiously as I passed them. Never before had any of them seen a mere guardsman summoned in this way.

A moment later my stomach was churning with anxiety as I stood in front of John. He was sitting at an ornate desk, reading through a document, and when he raised his head to look at me, I thought how very tired he seemed. His eyes were sunk even deeper than usual. Perhaps the cares of state were weighing more heavily than he had expected, or maybe the rumours in the marketplace were true: that the Orphanotrophus never slept, but in the night dressed up as a monk and walked the streets of the city, eavesdropping on conversations, questioning ordinary citizens and learning the mood of the people. It was little wonder that people feared him. Certainly I felt sick with apprehension as I waited for him to speak. And his first words told me that he remembered exactly who I was.

'I have summoned you because you speak excellent Greek as well as Varangian,' he said. 'I have a mission for you.'

The tight knot in my stomach began to relax, but only for a moment. Was this another court deceit? Was the Orphanotrophus putting me at ease before revealing his true intention?

'My agents tell me that a large force of Rus is approaching. It appears that there are about five hundred of them travelling in monocylon, the vessels which traders from Rus normally use, and they are coming by the same route.'

Five hundred Rus did not amount to an invading force, I thought to myself. The market rumour was greatly exaggerated. It would take at least ten times that number to pose a threat to Constantinople's well-tried defences.

As though reading my mind, the Orphanotrophus added, 'I'm not concerned about the safety of the city. What does interest me is that my informants tell me these men are not merchants. They do not carry trade goods, they are heavily armed and there is a report that their leader is some sort of prince or nobleman. His name is Araltes, or something like that. Do you know anyone by this name?'

'No, your excellency,' I replied. 'It's not a name that I am familiar with.'

'You soon will be,' the Orphanotrophus replied dryly. 'I have given orders that the foreigners are to be intercepted at the entrance to the straits. They will be escorted to the district of St Mamas on the opposite side of the Golden Horn and held there, well away from the city, pending an investigation of their intentions. That is where you come in. I want to know who they are and why they have come here. If they are Rus, you will understand their language when they speak among themselves, and you seem to be an intelligent man who can make his own judgements and ask the right questions. Afterwards you come back to me and report your impressions in person.'

'Yes, your excellency,' I answered, beginning to think that I had been unnecessarily suspicious of John. 'When do you expect the foreigners to arrive?'

'In three days' time,' he answered. 'Now go and report to my chief chartularius. He will write out your instructions. Officially you will be serving as escort to the deputation from the office of dromos.' He paused, and then said something which - as intended - reminded me of the words I had used when delivering the message that lured me from my duty to guard the Basileus. 'As I'm sure you are aware,' the eunuch continued softly, 'the logothete of the dromos is responsible for foreign relations, secret intelligence and embassies, as well as the imperial postal system -a curious mixture, don't you think? — while the dekanos are the palace messengers. So the men from the dromos will manage the official contact with these five hundred barbarians, but you are my eyes and ears. I want you to eavesdrop on the foreigners for me.'

My interview was at an end. I looked into the hooded eyes of the Orphanotrophus and, with numbing certainty, understood why he was so confident that I would act as his spy, even against my own people. It was just as Pelagia had said: it did not matter whether John had plotted to put his brother Michael on the throne. Basileus Romanus had died during my watch, when I had been responsible for his safety. John had witnessed my dereliction of duty and he could bring me to account at any time he chose. I was at his mercy. Yet he was too subtle to mention that fact outright. He preferred to rely on my fear and make me his creature.

So it was that three days after my interview with the Basileus's sinister brother I was aboard a small ferry boat, being rowed across the choppy waters of the Golden Horn towards the landing place at Mamas. With me were two dour-looking officials from the secretariat of the dromos. To judge from their manner, they thought it was a vile imposition to be plucked from the calm shelter of their offices and sent to interview a gang of uncouth barbarians from the north. One of the officials wrinkled his nose with distaste as he clutched his robe so that the hem did not get soaked by the slop of bilge water. Since they were on official business, both he and his colleague were wearing formal costumes which denoted their bureaucratic rank. His cloak had a green border, so I knew he was a high-ranking civil servant, and I wondered whether he too spoke Norse. The office of the dromos maintained a college of trained interpreters and it would be typical of the Orphanotrophus to send not one but two spies so he could cross-check their impressions.

As our little boat approached the landing stage, the sight of the moored flotilla of a dozen or so boats suddenly made me homesick for the northern lands. The monocylon, as John had called them, were a smaller version of the curved seagoing ships I had known all my life. The boats docked at Mamas were less well built than genuine ocean-going vessels, but they were handy enough for short sea crossings and very different from the tubby hulls favoured by the Greeks. My nostalgia grew as I scrambled up on to the quay and walked across the open ground where the foreigners had been given permission to pitch their tents. There were piles of flax sails, wooden kegs, spars, coils of rope, anchors and other ship's gear, all so familiar to me. I could smell the tar on the ropes and the grease on the leather straps of the steering blades. Even the stacked oars were of the same pattern I had used when I was a youngster.

The encampment, with its neat rows of tents, had a vaguely military feeling, and I understood why the imperial spies had reported their unease. This large assembly of travellers had definitely not come to Constantinople to buy and sell goods. The men strolling around the camp, hovering over the cooking pots, or simply lazing in the sun, all had the look of warriors. They were big and self-confident and they were Norse — that was sure. They had the blond colouring of the Norse, the long hair and luxuriant beards, and they wore the characteristic heavy leggings and cross-garters, though their tunics were a motley of colours and cloths, ranging from linen to leather. One or two even wore sheepskin jerkins, which were highly unsuitable in Constantinople's sunshine.

I scarcely attracted a glance from these burly strangers as I headed for a tent, larger than the others, which stood apart. I recognised it at once as a command tent, and did not need to be told that this was where we would find the leaders of this unknown group.

Gesturing to my two companions that they should wait outside, I pushed open the door flap. As I entered, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the subdued light. Around a trestle table stood a group of four or five men. Observing that I was a stranger and dressed in a foreign uniform — for I wore the guards' scarlet tunic - they waited impassively for me to explain what I wanted. But one man, thickset, with bushy grey hair and a heavy beard, reacted differently. He stared hard at me.

There was an awkward silence while I wondered how I should introduce myself, and what tone I should adopt. Then the silence was broken. 'Thorgils Leifsson! By all the Gods, if it isn't Thorgils!' the grey-haired man exclaimed loudly. He spoke with an unmistakable Icelandic accent, and I could even pick out which region of Iceland he came from: he was a man from the west fjords. His voice also gave me the clue to his identity, and a moment later I placed him. He was Halldor Snorrason, fifth son of Snorri Godi, with whose family I had stayed in Iceland as a young man. In fact, Halldor's sister Hallbera had been the first girl with whom I had fallen in love, and Halldor's father had played a crucial role in my teenage years.

"What's that fancy uniform you're wearing?' Halldor asked, striding across to clap me on the shoulder. 'The last we heard, you were headed off into Permia to buy furs from the ski-runners. Don't tell me that Thorgils, former associate of that outlaw Grettir the Strong, is now a member of the imperial Life Guard.'

'Yes, I'll have been a guardsman three years this autumn,' I said, and here I dropped my voice in case the men from the dromos could hear me through the tent cloth. 'I've been sent to find out what you and your comrades are doing, and why you have come to Constantinople.'

'Oh, that's no secret. You can go back to your chief and tell him that we've come to offer our services as fighting men to the Emperor of Miklagard,' Halldor replied cheerfully. 'We hear that he pays very well and the chances of loot are excellent. We want to go home as rich men!' He laughed.

I had to smile at his enthusiasm. 'What? All of you want to join the Life Guard? I'm told that there are five hundred of you. A recruit only joins when there is a vacancy and there is a long waiting list.'

'No,' said Halldor. 'We don't want to join the guard. Our plan is to stay together as a single fighting unit.'

The idea was so unexpected that for a moment I was silenced. Norsemen did not usually form themselves into disciplined warrior brigades, particularly when they were roving freebooters hoping to loot and plunder. They were far too independent-minded. There had to be another factor.

Halldor saw my puzzlement. 'Every one of us has already pledged allegiance to one man, a single leader. If he finds service with the Basileus, then we follow him.'

'Who is that man?' I asked.

'I am,' said a deep voice, and I turned to see a tall, soldierly figure stooping in under the door flap at the far end of the tent. He straightened up to his full height, and in that instant I knew that Odinn had answered my profoundest hope.

Harald Sigurdsson - as I soon knew him to be and that was long before he became known as Hardrada, 'Hard Ruler' - stood a little under six and a half feet tall, and in the half light of the tent he was like a hero emerging from the shadowy world of the earliest sagas. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he moved with an athletic grace, towering over the other men. When he came closer, I imagined for a moment that I was looking up into the face of someone I had heard described in a fireside tale when I was a child. He had the fierce look of a sea eagle. His prominent nose was like a beak, while his close-set bright blue eyes had an intense, almost unblinking stare. His thick yellow hair, too, resembled the ruff of long feathers around a sea eagle's neck, for it hung down to his shoulders, and he had a quick way of turning his head, like a bird of prey seeking a victim, so that the hair shifted on his shoulders like an eagle's ruff. His moustache was even more spectacular. It was dressed in a style long out of fashion: two thick strands of moustache hung down on either side of his mouth, like blond silk cords, and dangled against his chest.

'And who are you?' he demanded.

I was so stunned by his appearance that I faltered in my reply, and Halldor had to fill the gap for me.

'He is Thorgils, son of Leif the Lucky,' said the Icelander. 'He used to stay at my father's place in Iceland when he was a teenager.'

'He's your foster brother?'

'No — my father took an interest in him because he was what you might call gifted. He has, or had, the second sight.'

The giant Norseman turned towards me, and his eyes searched my face, judging me. I sensed that he was calculating whether I could be useful to him.

'Is that the uniform of an imperial Life Guard?'

'Yes, my lord,' I replied. Calling him 'my lord' seemed utterly natural. If ever I had seen a born aristocrat, it was this tall, proud stranger. I guessed he was about fifteen years younger than me, but there was no question who was owed respect.

'I suppose they've sent you as a spy,' he said bluntly. 'Tell your master that we are exactly what we seem to be — a war band — and that its leader is Harald Sigurdsson of Norway, half-brother of St Olaf. Tell him that I have come to place my myself and my men at his disposal. Tell him also that we are veteran fighters. Most of us have already seen service in the household of King Jaroslav of Kiev.'

Now I knew exactly who he was: scion of one of the most powerful families in Norway. His half-brother Olaf had ruled Norway for a dozen years before being toppled by jealous chieftains. 'I'm only a duty escort, my lord,' I said meekly. 'You need to talk to the two officials waiting outside. They are from the seketron — from the office which looks after foreign envoys. They will handle the arrangements.'

'Then don't let's waste time,' Harald said briskly. 'Introduce me.' And he turned on his heel and left the tent. I hurried after him just in time to see the expressions on the faces of the two bureaucrats as this imperious giant of a man bore down on them. They looked alarmed.

'This is the leader of the, er, barbarians,' I said in Greek. 'He is very high-born. In his own country he's a nobelissimus. He has spent some time in the court of Kiev and now wishes that he and his men enter the service of the great Basileus.'

The two civil servants had regained their composure. They produced parchment and reed pens from the small ivory work cases they carried and waited expectantly.

'Please repeat the name of the nobelissimus,' said the man whom I took to be the senior.

'Harald, son of Sigurd,' I answered.

'His rank and tribe?'

'No tribe,' I replied. 'From his family have come the kings of a far northern country called Norway.'

The civil servant murmured something to his colleague. I could not hear what he said, but the man nodded.

'Is his father the current king of his people?'

This was becoming embarrassing. I had no idea of Harald's current status, and was too nervous to ask him directly, so I translated the question to Halldor, who had joined us. But it was Harald himself who replied.

'Tell him that my country was ruled by my half-brother until he was killed in battle by his enemies and that I am the rightful heir.'

Harald, I thought to myself, had a very clear idea of his own worth. I translated his statement and the official wrote it down carefully. He was clearly feeling more comfortable now that he could reduce everything to the written word.

'I will need an exact roster of the people in his company -their names, ages, rank and places of origin. Also a full inventory of any goods they are carrying: type, size and description of their weapons; number and condition of the sea craft they have; whether there has been any sickness during the journey from Kiev . . .'

I sensed that Harald, beside me, was losing patience.

'Making lists, are they?' he interrupted.

'Yes, my lord. They have to report back to their office with a full description of your war band and all its equipment.'

'Excellent,' he said. 'Tell them to make a second copy for me. It could be useful for my quartermasters.' Then he turned on his heel and strode away.

Fortunately one of the Rus guides who had brought Harald and his men downriver from Kiev spoke adequate Greek and volunteered to relieve me of the chore of translating as the bureaucrats from the dromos patiently went about their task. I took the chance to draw Halldor to one side and ask him about Harald.

'What's this about him being the rightful heir to the throne of Norway?' I asked. 'And if he is the rightful heir, why has he been spending time at the court of King Jaroslav in Kiev?'

'He had to flee Norway when his half-brother was defeated and killed in battle while trying to regain the throne. He found refuge with King Jaroslav, as did many other Norwegians who backed the wrong side in the civil war. He spent three years in Kiev as a military commander and was so outstanding that he asked the king if he could marry his daughter Elizabeth.'

It seemed that there was no limit to the self-confidence of Harald Sigurdsson.

'So what was the king's answer?'

'He didn't need to say anything. The Princess Elizabeth told Harald to come back when he had riches and renown, and as Harald is not one to let the grass grow under his feet, he retorted that he would win his fortune in the service of the Basileus. Anyone who wanted to join him could do so if they were good warriors and swore allegiance to him. Then he left Kiev with his war band.'

'Well, what about you? Was Harald's boast enough to make you join up?'

'It's just as I said, Thorgils. I want to be rich. If there's anyone on this earth who's going to win plunder, it's Harald Sigurdsson. He's ambitious, he's energetic, and, above all, he's got battle luck.'

There was one more question which I had to ask, and I dreaded the reply.

'Is Harald a follower of the White Christ,' I asked, 'or does he follow the Old Ways?'

'That's the odd thing,' replied Halldor. 'You would have thought Harald would be as Christian as his half-brother King Olaf, whom many are now calling "St Olaf". Yet, I've never seen Harald go out of his way to attend a church service or say a prayer to Christ. He serves just one God — himself. He knows exactly what he wants: to win the throne of Norway, and he will follow any God or belief that will help him achieve his ambition.'

It was that statement which, in due course, convinced me to throw in my lot with Harald Sigurdsson. Later I was to join him, not for riches, but because I believed that I had finally met the one man capable of restoring the fortunes of the Old Ways. If I could help Harald to gain his throne and show that Odinn and the Old Gods had favoured him, then he might return his kingdom to the Elder Faith. My scheme was refined and shaped in my mind over the weeks and months to come, but it began on the day that Halldor Snorrason told me of Harald's ambition.

'You should know that Harald's more than just a bold warrior,' Halldor went on, unaware that his every word was adding to my certainty that Odinn himself had groomed Harald as his champion. 'He's a great patron to skalds. He can judge their poetry because he knows the ancient lore as well as any man alive, and gives a handsome reward to any skald who skilfully portrays the world of the Gods. And he's more than just a critic. He composes good verse himself. Most of us in his war band can quote the couplet he composed as he fled from the battle that killed his half-brother —' Here Halldor paused. Then he took a breath and recited:

'Now I go creeping from forest

To forest with little honour;

Who knows, my name may yet become

Renowned far and wide in the end.'

'Not bad for a fifteen-year-old wounded while fighting on the losing side of a battle that decides a throne,' he commented.

Yet again I felt that Odinn was pointing the way. I too had been fifteen years old when I fought and was wounded in a great battle that had decided a kingdom, the throne of Ireland. The Norns, who determine men's destiny, had woven the same patterns into the lives of Harald Sigurdsson and myself. Now Odinn had brought us to where our paths crossed.

The sound of a footfall behind me made me turn, and there was the man himself. With the sunshine falling full on his sea eagle's face, I saw something that I had not noticed before: his features were regular and well made, and he was a very handsome man, except in one strange detail — his left eyebrow was very much higher than the other. I took it to be a shadow of Odinn's lop-sided mark, Odinn the one-eyed.

'So WHAT DID you make of this Araltes?' asked John the Orphanotrophus when I reported back to him the following day. I noted a sheet of parchment on the desk in front of him, and guessed that it was the written report from the office of the dromos. It was widely acknowledged that the imperial bureaucracy had never operated so efficiently as when John had taken over the running of the state.

'He seems genuine, your excellency. In Norse his name is Harald, son of Sigurd,' I answered, standing to attention and staring fixedly at a semicircle of gold paint. It was a saint's halo in an icon fixed to the wall behind the Orphanotrophus's head. I was still frightened of the man and I did not want him looking into my eyes and reading my thoughts.

'What about this tale that he is some sort of nobleman?'

'It is correct, your excellency. He is related to the royal family of Norway. He and his men have come to offer their services to his majesty, the Basileus.'

'And what would you say is the status of their morale and equipment?'

'First-class morale, your excellency. Their weaponry is workmanlike and well maintained.' 'Their ships?'

'In need of some overhaul, but seaworthy.'

'Good. I see that you kept your wits about you. My pedantic colleagues in the dromos have taken care to remind me of the regulation that no foreign prince may serve in the imperial Life Guard. Too risky, it seems. In case he gets ideas above his station. But I believe I have a use for these barbarians. I am sending a note to the akolouthos, the commanding officer of the guard, telling him that you are detached for special duties. You are to be the liaison between my office and Araltes and his force. You will receive a bonus above your regular guard's pay and, unless you are employed otherwise by me, you will continue to perform your normal guard duties. That is all.'

I left the room and was immediately intercepted by a secretary. He handed me a scroll and I opened it to see that it contained my written orders. It seemed that the Orphanotrophus had decided on his course of action before I even reported to his office. I read that I was to prepare 'the visitor Araltes' for an audience with his imperial majesty, the Basileus, at a date yet to be decided. Until that time I was to assist in familiarising Araltes with the organisation and operational structure of the imperial navy. I reread this sentence, as it was not what I had anticipated. The imperial navy was very much the junior branch of the imperial forces, though it possessed the most powerful fleet in the Great Sea. I had expected Harald and his men to be recruited into the Varangians-without-the-walls, the brigade of foreign mercenaries which included Armenians, Georgians, Vlachs and the like. But instead Harald and his men were to be marines.

When I next visited the camp at Mamas, I explained these orders to Halldor, who merely grunted. 'Makes sense,' he said. 'We're used to sea fights. But what's all this about preparing us for reception by the Basileus?'

'You've got to get the details absolutely right,' I told him. 'Nothing angers the emperor's councillors more than mistakes in court etiquette. It reinforces their view that anyone unfamiliar with court procedures is an ignorant savage, utterly uncouth and not worth dealing with. They've been known to turn down the requests of foreign ambassadors simply because of some minor transgression of court protocol. For example, a visiting ambassador who uses the wrong title to address the Basileus will be refused further audiences with the emperor, have his ambassadorial privileges withdrawn, and so on.'

'So what should Harald call the Basileus?'

'Emperor of the Romans.'

Halldor looked puzzled. 'How's that? This is Constantinople, not Rome, and anyhow isn't there a German ruler who calls himself the Holy Roman Emperor?'

'That's what I mean. The Basileus and his entire court are convinced that they are the true heirs of the Roman empire, that they represent its true ideals and continue its glory. They are prepared to grant that the German is the "the king" of the Romans, but not "the emperor". Just the same way that their own holy men claim that their Great Patriarch is the high priest of White Christ worship, not the person in Rome who calls himself the pope. It also explains why there's such a confusing mix of Latin and Greek in their military ranks — they speak of decurions and centurions as if they were soldiers in a Roman army, but the higher ranks nearly all have Greek titles.'

Halldor sighed. 'Well, I just hope you can persuade Harald to use the right phrases and do the right thing. I'm not sure he will like grovelling to the Basileus. He's not that sort.'

Halldor's worries were needless. I found that Harald Sigurdsson was fully prepared to rein in his usually arrogant behaviour if it was to be to his advantage, and because I desperately wanted the Norwegian prince to succeed, I worked hard at tutoring him in exactly how to behave during his visit to the Great Palace. The emperor's subjects, I told him first, thought it such a great privilege to be allowed to meet the Basileus in person that they would wait for years to be granted an audience. For them it was the equivalent of meeting their God's representative on earth, and everything inside the palace was regulated to enhance this impression.

'Think of it, my lord, like a service in the most lavish White Christ church,' I said. 'Everything is ceremony and pomp. The courtiers wear special silken robes, each man knows his exact duties, the spot where he must stand, the exact gestures to use, the correct words to say. Everything focuses on the emperor himself. He sits on his golden throne, wearing the jewel-encrusted costume they call the chlamys. Across his shoulders is the loros, the long stole that only the emperor may wear, and on his feet are the tzangia, the purple boots exclusive to his rank. He will be motionless, gazing down the hall towards the door where you enter. You will be ushered in and then must advance down the hall and perform proskynesis.'

'What's proskynesis?' Harald asked, leaning forward on his stool.

I realised that I had got carried away with the splendour of the ceremony, and hesitated because I did not know how Harald would react to my explanation.

'Proskynesis is the act of homage,' I said.

'Go on.'

I swallowed nervously. 'It means lying prostrate on the floor, face down, and staying there until the word comes from a courtier for you to rise.'

There was a long pause as Harald thought this over. I feared that he was about to refuse to debase himself this way, but instead he asked, 'How far am I from the throne when I have to do this lying-down performance?'

I had been holding my breath, and let it out gently. 'As you walk down the hall towards the Basileus, look downward and you will see that there is a purple disc set in the marble floor. That marks the spot where you should lie down.'

Harald asked promptly, 'How do you know all this?'

'Because a detail of the guard stands behind the emperor's throne during the ceremony, and I have watched it happen many times. The guardsmen get to know the little tricks which make the ceremony seem more impressive. In fact sometimes it is difficult to keep a straight face.'

'Like when?'

'If the court chamberlain thinks the visitor is impressionable enough, the Basileus's throne is made to elevate during the proskynesis. While the supplicant is face down on the floor, a team of operators winds a lifting jack hidden behind the throne so that when the supplicant lifts his head he sees the emperor seated higher than before. The look of astonishment on the supplicant's face can be very entertaining. But,' I added hurriedly, 'I don't think they will try that ruse on the day you have an imperial audience.'

Recalling my first conversations with Harald, it occurs to me now that I was possibly making a mistake. I thought I was merely preparing him for his meeting with the Basileus, but I fear that Harald was in fact learning a very different lesson: the importance of establishing dominion over others, how to dazzle them. If so, in my enthusiasm for Harald's success I was preparing the seeds for my own later disappointment.

The Orphanotrophus had also instructed me to familiarise the Norwegian prince with the imperial navy, so I took Harald to the naval arsenal on the Golden Horn. There the eparch of the dockyard, fearing espionage, received us coolly and insisted that an official from the dromos as well as his own deputy accompany us on our tour. I showed Harald rank upon rank of slipways, where the warships were built and repaired, warehouses filled with naval stores, mast sheds and sail lofts, and I explained how most of the seamen were recruited from the coastal peoples across the straits in Asia Minor. Harald, who had an expert eye for shipwright's skills, asked such probing questions of the master carpenters that I was sometimes at a loss for the right words as I translated into Greek. Then he demanded to inspect a warship in commission. When the eparch's deputy hesitated, Harald insisted. If his men were to serve on the imperial ships, then at least they should know what to expect. He pointed at a dromon of the largest size, a three-masted fleet battleship which lay at anchor in the Golden Horn, awaiting orders. He would like to inspect that vessel, he said. As I was to notice many times later, when Harald Sigurdsson put a request, it sounded more like a command.

A naval pinnace rowed us out. Close up, the dromon was even larger than I had expected. I had never been aboard one before, and she was immense, at least half as long again as the largest longship that I had seen in the past and two or three times as broad. But what really made her seem imposing was her height above the water. Our Norse warships are low and sleek, but the imperial battleships are built upwards from the waterline. The intention is to overawe the enemy and give a superior platform from which archers can shoot downwards. So the dromon loomed over us as we approached, her height increased by a castle-like structure built amidship. We clambered up her side and on her deck immediately came face to face with her kentarchos, her sailing master. Angrily he demanded to know who this strange-looking foreigner with the long moustaches was who came climbing aboard his ship as though he owned her. When the man from the dromos explained that Harald had a letter from the sekreton of the Orphanotrophus, the kentarchos glowered, then accompanied us at every pace around her deck, watching us suspiciously.

Harald missed nothing. Fascinated by this unknown design of war vessel, he asked how the dromon handled in a seaway, how her sails were set and reefed, how nimbly she could alter course, how fast she went when all two hundred oarsmen were at the benches and for how long they could keep up a cruising pace. The kentarchos answered reluctantly. To him a bearded Norseman was a natural foe. Time and again I had to remind our guide that it was the Orphanotrophus's order that Harald should be familiar with the imperial war fleet, and one day Harald's men might be aboard as his marines. The kentarchos looked as if he would prefer to scuttle his vessel.

Finally we reached the forecastle in the dromon's bows.

'And what is that?' asked Harald.

A bronze tube protruded through a metal plate, pointing forward like a single nostril. Close behind the tube stood two metal baths, joined by copper pipes to an apparatus that looked like a pump.

'That's the vessel's siphon,' said the man from the dromos. The kentarchos glared at him, then rudely walked in front of Harald, deliberately blocking his view.

'Not even the emperor's direct command allows me to tell you more,' he growled. 'Now get off my ship.' To my surprise, Harald obeyed.

Much later, when we were safely back outside the arsenal and no officials were in earshot, Harald muttered, 'So that's how they launch the Fire. But how do they create it?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm not even sure what it is.'

'When I was in Kiev I heard people describe how it destroyed a war fleet in their grandfathers' time,' Harald said. 'People marvelled how the Fire ignites in the air, turning to cinders anything it touches. It even burns underwater. It's amazing.'

That evening, when I asked Pelagia about the Fire, my normally reliable source of information was little help. She told me that only a handful of technicians knew how to create it, and that the ingredients were among the most closely guarded state secrets. Rumour had it that the Fire was made of quicklime mixed with an oil that comes from the earth. I told her about the strange bronze tube aboard the dromon and she laughed. She said that there were foreign sailors who believed the imperial navy had a breeding programme of fire-breathing dragons, which they stowed below decks before setting out on a campaign and then let loose in the bows of their ships just before a fleet action.

Shortly after the feast day of the Transfiguration, one of Constantinople's major festivals, and two months after his arrival Harald finally had his audience with Michael. It took place in yet another of the splendid halls within the Great Palace, the Magnaura, which was often used for greeting foreign ambassadors, and as luck would have it I was a member of the imperial escort. As I took up my position behind the throne and rested my axe on my shoulder, I felt like a nervous schoolmaster who waits to see how his star pupil will perform. The interior of the hall was like a vast church, with columns and galleries and high windows glazed with coloured glass. The far end opened on to a wide courtyard planted with trees, and there the supplicants were assembled. Among them I could see Harald, standing a full head taller than his colleagues. In the foreground stood a host of court dignitaries waiting for the signal from the master of ceremonies. Even after witnessing dozens of such ceremonies, I still marvelled at the splendour of the occasion. The courtiers and dignitaries were dressed according to their seniority and the office they held. There were senators and patricians in blue and green, Greek officers of the Hetaira in white tunics with gold bands, magistrates and high officials dressed in shimmering patterned silk and holding their insignia — golden staffs, ivory wands, court swords in scabbards ornate with enamel plaques, jewelled whips, tablets and illuminated scrolls. Many of the costumes were so stiffly sewn with gold and silver embroidery, as well as precious stones and pearls, that their wearers could barely move. But that was also part of the ritual. All the assembly was expected to stay motionless, or at least nearly so. Any movement must be slow and dignified.

A trumpet blast announced that the ceremony was to begin, and the assembly, facing towards Michael on his throne (Zoe had not been invited), raised the customary paean in honour of the Basileus. After several minutes of praise and acclamation I saw in the distance the ostiarios, the palace eunuch whose duty was to introduce dignitaries to the emperor, approach Harald and indicate that he was to walk forward. The crowd had now parted, leaving an aisle which led towards the throne. On the marble floor, in the open space before the throne, I could see the purple disc where Harald was to lie face down and perform proskynesis. At that moment I suddenly realised that I had failed to warn Harald about the automata. I had told him of the elevating throne, but forgotten that in the Magnaura, on each side of the purple disc, stood the lifelike bronze statue of a lion. The statues were hollow and articulated; by an ingenious system of hidden air pumps the animals could be made to lash their tails, open their jaws and let out a roar. The operators of the automata, concealed in the crowd, were instructed to make the beasts roar at the very moment the supplicant was about to prostrate himself before the throne.

I watched Harald as he stalked down the great hall between the lines of watching courtiers. He was bare-headed and wearing a velvet tunic of dark green with loose silk pantaloons. His only jewellery was a plain gold tore on each arm. In such a glittering and flamboyant assembly he should have been inconspicuous, but his presence dominated those around him. It was not just his height and obvious physical strength which impressed the onlookers, it was that Harald of Norway walked the length of Magnaura as if the ceremonial hall belonged to him, not the Basileus.

He approached the purple disc and halted in the open space before the throne, clear of the watching crowd. There was a pause, a long moment of silence, as he faced the emperor. At that moment the hidden operators of the automata opened the valves and the mechanical beasts lashed their tails and roared. If the audience had been expecting Harald to flinch or look startled, they were disappointed. He turned his head to look into the open jaws, first of one beast, then the other. He seemed thoughtful, even curious. Then, nonchalantly, he lay down on the marble floor and performed proskynesis.

Much later he told me that it was as he stared into the open mouths of the bronze lions and heard the hiss of the air pumps that made them move and roar that he understood the Fire.

THREE

I DID NOT SEE Harald again for nearly four months. After his proskynesis to the Basileus, he and his men left Constantinople. The Orphanotrophus had given them the task of dealing with the growing menace from Arab pirates who regularly attacked ships sailing from Dyrrachium on the west coast of Greece. The port of Dyrrachium was a vital link in the empire's communications. Through its harbour passed imperial couriers, troops and merchandise on their way to and from Constantinople and the colonies in southern Italy. Recently the raiders had been so bold as to establish bases in the nearby Greek islands, from where their fast galleys pounced on passing ships. The Orphanotrophus's original plan was to send to the area additional units of the imperial navy with Harald's men aboard. But, according to my colleagues in the guard, the drungarios, the admiral of the fleet, refused. He baulked at taking so many barbarians on board his ships, and Harald had made matters worse by stating that he would not take orders from a Greek commander. The deadlock was resolved when Harald offered to use his own vessels, the light monocylon, and base them at Dyrrachium. From there he would send them out as escorts for the merchant ships and to patrol against the enemy.

With Harald gone, I returned to my previous duties with the guard and found that the whispers about Michael's ill health were

true. The young emperor was afflicted by what the palace physicians tactfully called 'the holy sickness'.

I first noticed the symptoms when Michael was dressing for the festival which celebrates the birth of the White Christ. With five other members of the bodyguard, I had escorted Michael to the imperial robing chamber. There the vestitores, the officials who solemnly place the imperial regalia on the Basileus, ceremonially opened the chest containing the royal garb. The most junior of the officials took out the cloak, the chlamys, which he solemnly handed to the next most senior in rank. From hand to hand the garment was passed until finally it reached the senior vestitor, who reverently approached the waiting Basileus, intoned a prayer, and settled the cloak on the emperor's shoulders. There followed the pearl-encrusted stole, the jewelled gloves, the chest pendant. All the time the Basileus stood motionless until the crown was presented to him. At that moment, something went awry. Instead of leaning forward to kiss the cross on the crown, as ritual demanded, Michael began to tremble. It was only a slight movement, but standing behind him we, the members of the escort, could see that his right arm was shaking uncontrollably. The vestitor waited, still proffering the crown, but Michael was paralysed, unable to move except for the trembling of his arm. There was complete silence as the interval lengthened and everyone in the room stood still, as if frozen in place, the only movement the rapid shaking of Michael's right arm. Then, after the time it takes for a man to empty his lungs slowly seven or eight times, the arm slowly grew still, and Michael resumed full control of his body. Later that day, as if nothing had happened, he joined the procession along the garlanded streets to a service at the church of Hagia Sophia, then held several formal receptions in the Great Palace at which senior bureaucrats received their Nativity gifts, and in the evening appeared at a great banquet in the lausakios, the dining hall of the Great Palace. But the Orphanotrophus must have been advised of the emperor's brief moment of paralysis, because the normal seating arrangements had been modified. Michael was seated alone at a separate ivory table, on view to all his noble guests, but no one could come close to him.

'They say this kind of sickness is caused by demons in the brain,' Halfdan commented to me as we were removing our ceremonial armour later that evening in the guardroom.

'Maybe,' I replied. 'Yet some people see it as a gift.'

'Where's that?'

'Among the ski-runners in Permia,' I said. 'I spent the winter with the family of one of their wise men, who sometimes behaved in the same way as the emperor, only it was more than just his arm trembling. Often he would fall on the ground and lie without moving for as long as an hour. When he woke up again, he told us how his spirit had been visiting the otherworld. It could happen with the Basileus.'

'If it does, the Christians won't believe he visited any spirit world,' Halfdan grumbled. 'They don't hold with that sort of thing. Their saints show up on earth and perform miracles, but no one travels in the opposite direction and comes back.'

My analysis turned out to be correct. As the weeks passed, Michael's eccentric behaviour became more pronounced and the episodes lasted longer. Sometimes he would sit mumbling to himself, or begin chewing rhythmically though there was no food in his mouth. On other occasions he would suddenly start to wander about the palace in a state of confusion until, abruptly, he came to his senses and looked about him trying to identify where he stood. The duty guardsmen escorted him as best they could, walking behind the dazed Basileus while someone sent hastily for a palace physician. If there was an encounter with someone who did not know about the emperor's state of health, then the guardsmen had orders to form a circle around the Basileus and shield him from view. The handful of doctors who were privy to Michael's condition tried doses of opium and rose oil, and induced him to drink muddy concoctions of earth gathered in their Holy Land and dissolved in holy water from a sacred well in a church at Pege just outside the city walls. But the emperor's behaviour did not return to normal. Rather, it grew ever more extreme and unpredictable.

By contrast, as this crisis gradually developed, my own troubles seemed to recede. Having successfully obeyed the Orphanotrophus's instructions in dealing with Harald and his men, I calculated that John would keep me as a go-between as long as Harald proved loyal. Pelagia encouraged me in this thinking. I was spending more and more time with her, and in the evenings when off duty I would go to dine at her apartment - she always brought back fresh delicacies from the market where she kept her bread stall — and we would sit and chat together, ostensibly to practise my Greek but more and more because I found her company to be a pleasant change from regimental life and because I valued her shrewd commentary on the power play that I was observing in the palace.

'As long as you might prove useful to the Orphanotrophus,' she said, 'you should be safe. He's got much to worry him now that his brother is showing signs of ill health.'

'So news of the emperor's condition has leaked out?'

'Naturally,' she replied. 'There's not much that goes on in the palace that doesn't eventually become gossip in the marketplace. There are too many people employed in the palace for there to be secrets. Incidentally,' she added, 'your bearded northern friends who went off to Dyrrachium with their ships must be doing well. That cheese I served with the first course this evening comes from Italy, and until recently it was almost impossible to get. The Italian cheese-makers were reluctant to send their produce when so many of the merchant vessels were falling into the hands of the Arab pirates. Now the cheese has reappeared in the market. That's a good sign.'

I remembered our conversation when I received my next summons from the Orphanotrophus. This time I found he was not alone. The fleet admiral, the drungarios, was in his office, as well as a naval kentarchos, by coincidence the same man who had turned Harald and myself off his dromon. Both men looked surprised and resentful that I had been called to the meeting, and I made sure I stood respectfully, eyes fixed once again on the golden halo of the icon, but listening with close attention to what the Orphanotrophus had to say.

'Guardsman, I've received an unusual request from war captain Araltes, now on anti-piracy patrol. He wants you to accompany the next pay shipment for our army in Italy.'

'As your excellency orders,' I answered crisply.

'It is not that straightforward,' said the Orphanotrophus, 'otherwise I would not have summoned you in person. This shipment could be a little different from usual. Araltes — or Harald as you told me your people call him — has been very effective. His men have destroyed several pirate bases and captured or sunk a number of the Saracen vessels, but not all of them. One particularly dangerous vessel remains at large. Araltes reports that the vessel's base is in Sicily and therefore beyond the operational range of his monocylon. The drungarios here agrees with this assessment. He also tells me that several of his warships have attempted to hunt down this corsair but so far have failed.'

'The vessel has been too quick for them,' explained the drungarios in self-defence. 'She is powerful and well manned and she has been able to outrun my dromons.'

The Orphanotrophus ignored the interruption. 'It is vital that our troops now on campaign in southern Italy receive their pay in the next few weeks. If they do not, they will lose heart. They have not been paid for half a year as both the last two pay shipments were lost. We believe the vessels carrying the payments were intercepted by the same cruising pirate, who has yet to be accounted for. It was either a remarkably bad stroke of luck for the raider or, as Araltes suggests, the pirate was informed in advance when and where the shipments were being made.'

I waited impassively to hear what the Orphanotrophus would say next. So far he had not mentioned anything which explained why Harald wanted me to accompany the next shipment.

"War captain Araltes has suggested a ruse to ensure that the next payment does get through. He proposes that the army's pay is not sent in the usual way, by the imperial highway from the capital to Dyrrachium and there trans-shipped for Italy. He proposes that the money is delivered by sea all the way, aboard a fast ship sailing from Constantinople, around Greece and then directly across to Italy.'

'That plan is madness, your excellency. Typical of a barbarian,' protested the kentarchos, 'What is there to say that the merchant ship would not equally be intercepted by the pirate. Unarmed, the vessel would be helpless. It would be an even easier target.'

'There is a second part to the plan,' said the Orphanotrophus smoothly. 'Araltes suggests a fake pay shipment is also sent, at the same time and along the normal route, to distract the raider. This shipment is to be of lead bars instead of the usual gold bullion. It will be fully escorted as if it were the real consignment, taken to Dyrrachium, and loaded aboard a military transport carrying extra fighting men supplied by Araltes. This decoy vessel will then set sail for Italy. If the pirate's spies tell him about this vessel, he will intercept it, and this time he may be destroyed. Meanwhile the real shipment will have slipped through.'

'If it please your excellency,' the kentarchos interjected, 'the shipment can go all the way by sea, but why not aboard a dromon? No pirate would dare attack.'

'The drungarios assures me that this is impossible. He cannot spare a battleship,' replied the Orphanotrophus. 'Every dromon is already committed.'

Out of the corner of my eye I watched the drungarios. He looked towards his kentarchos and gave a shrug. The drungarios, I thought to myself, was as much a courtier as a seaman. He did not want the risk of the imperial navy losing another bullion shipment, nor did he want to contradict the Orphantrophus.

'Guardsman, what is your opinion?'

From the tone of his voice I knew the Orphanotrophus had directed his question at me, but still I dared not look directly into his face, and kept my gaze fixed on the icon on the wall behind him.

'I am not an expert on naval matters, your excellency,' I said, choosing my words carefully, 'but I would suggest that, just as a precaution, two of the monocylon escort the bullion vessel through the zone where the pirate ship is most likely to be operating, at least to the limit of their range.'

'Strange you should mention that,' observed the Orphanotrophus. 'That is just what Araltes also proposes. He says he can send two of the monocylon to a rendezvous off the south cape of Greece. That is why he asks that you be aboard the bullion ship. So that there are no misunderstandings when the captain of the Greek ship meets up with the Varangian captains.'

'As your excellency wishes,' I replied. Harald's deception plan was the sort of strategy which would appeal to the Orphanotrophus.

'Araltes asks one more thing. He requests that we send him an engineer and materials for the Fire.'

Beside me the kentarchos almost choked with astonishment. John noted his reaction.

'Don't worry,' he said soothingly. 'I have no intention of allowing the Fire to be made available to barbarian vessels. At the same time I don't want to snub Araltes. He is evidently someone who takes offence easily. He says nothing about requiring a siphon to dispense the Fire. So I'll send him the engineer and the materials, but no siphon. It will be a genuine mistake.'

It took three weeks to prepare the plan. First the bureau of the logothete of the domestikos, the army's secretariat, had to draw up two sets of orders: the official one for the false shipment and a second, secret set of instructions for the genuine consignment. Then their colleagues in the office of the logothete of the dromos, responsible for the imperial highways, had to make their preparations for an escorted convoy to go overland from Constantinople to Dyrrachium. The managers of the way stations were warned to be ready with changes of pack mules for carrying the payment, as well as horses for the mounted troopers. The eparch of the palace treasury received his instructions direct from the Orphanotrophus: he was to cast eight hundred bars of lead to the same weight as the thousands of gold nomisma, the imperial coins with which the troops were paid. Last, but not least, the navy had to find a suitable merchant ship to carry the genuine shipment around the coast.

When I went to the Golden Horn to view the chosen vessel, I had to admit that the kentarchos, who had been given this responsibility, knew his job. He had picked a vessel known locally as a dorkon or 'gazelle'. Twenty paces in length, the vessel was light and fast for a cargo carrier. She had two masts for her triangular sails, a draught shallow enough to allow her to work close inshore, and extra oar benches for sixteen men so she could make progress in a calm as well as manoeuvre her way safely in and out of harbour. Her captain also inspired me with confidence. A short, sinewy Greek by the name of Theodore, he came from the island of Lemnos, and he kept his ship in good order. Once he had made it clear to me that he was in charge and I was to be only a supercargo, he was polite and friendly. He had been told only that he was to sail to Italy by the direct route and expect a rendezvous at sea with auxiliary ships of the imperial navy. He had not been told the nature of his cargo. Nor did he ask.

I next saw Theodore on the night we left harbour. In keeping with the secrecy of our mission, we sailed within hours of the chests of bullion being carried aboard. The water guard were expecting us. They patrolled the great iron chain strung across the entrance to the Golden Horn at dusk to hinder smugglers or enemy attack, and they opened a gap so that the dorkon could slip out and catch the favourable current to take us down towards the Propontis or inner sea. As I looked towards the towering black mass of Constantinople spread across its seven hills, I recalled the day when I had first arrived. Then I had been awed by the sheer scale and splendour of Miklagard. Now the city was defined by the pinprick lights of the apartment blocks where thousands upon thousands of ordinary working citizens were still awake. Closer to hand, the steady beam of Constantinople's lighthouse shone out across the water, its array of lanterns fuelled by olive oil and burning in great glass jars to protect the flames from the wind.

The dorkon performed even better than I had anticipated. We set course directly across the Propontis, and this in itself was a measure of our captain's competence. Greek mariners normally stopped each evening and anchored at some regular shelter or pulled into a local port, so they hugged the coast and were seldom out of sight of land. But Theodore headed directly for the lower straits which led into what he called the Great Sea. Nor did he divert into the harbour at Abydos, where the empire maintained a customs post and all commercial vessels were required to stop and pay a toll. A patrol boat, alerted by signals from the customs post, managed to intercept us but I showed the written authority that the Orphanotrophus's chief chartularius had given me, and they let us proceed. The document stated we were on urgent imperial business and not to be delayed. John, I noted, had even taken to signing his name in the purple ink.

I was rolling up the scroll with its lead seal and about to return it to my satchel when the wind plucked a folded sheet of parchment from the bag and blew it across the deck. Theodore deftly caught the paper before it disappeared overboard, and as he returned it to me he gave me a questioning glance. He had obviously recognised some sort of map. I had been planning to show it to him later, but now seemed an opportune moment.

'The commander of the vessels which will join us later as our escort provided me with this,' I said, spreading out the page. 'He sent it by courier from Dyrrachium to the office of the dromos in Constantinople to be passed on to me. It shows where we can expect to rendezvous with our escort.'

The Greek captain glanced down at the outline drawn on the parchment and recognised the coastline immediately. 'Just beyond the Taenarum cape,' he said, then shrugged. 'Your commander need not have troubled himself. I know that coastline as well as my home port. Sailed past it more times than I can remember.'

'Well, it's best to be sure,' I said. 'He's marked where his ships will be waiting for us.' I placed my finger next to a runic letter drawn on the parchment. Recalling what Halldor had told me about Harald's knowledge of the ancient lore, I recognised it as a private code.

'What's that sign?' asked Theodore.

'The first letter of what might be described as the alphabet my people use. It's called fehu — it represents livestock or wealth.'

And that one?' asked the captain. A vertical stave line with a single diagonal bar had been drawn near the coast a little further north.

'That's nauthiz, the letter which signifies need or distress.'

The Greek captain examined the map more closely and remarked, 'What's it put there for? There's nothing along that stretch of coast except sheer cliffs. Not a place to be caught in an onshore gale either. Deep water right up to the land and no holding ground. You'd be dashed to pieces in an instant. Wiser to give the place a wide berth.'

'I don't know the reason,' I said, for I was equally puzzled.

With each mile that our ship travelled, I noticed the difference between sailing in the Great Sea and the conditions I had experienced in colder northern waters. The water had a more intense blue, the wave crests were whiter and more crisp against the darker background, and the waves themselves more lively. They formed and re-formed in a rapid dance, and seemed never to acquire the height and majesty of ocean rollers. I commented on this to Theodore, and his reply was serious.

'You should see what it is like in a storm,' he warned. 'A sort of madness. Steep waves falling down on themselves, coming from more than one direction to confuse the helmsman. Each big enough to swamp the boat. And no hint before the tempest strikes. That's the worst. It sweeps in from a cloudless sky and churns the sea into a rage even before you've had time to shorten sail.'

'Have you ever been shipwrecked?' I asked.

'Never,' he said and made the sign of the cross. 'But don't be lulled into complacency — the Great Sea has seen more than its share of shipwrecks, from the blessed St Paul right back to the times of our earliest seafarers, to Odysseus himself.'

The dorkon was sailing close inshore at the time, passing beneath a tall headland, and he gestured up towards its crest. High up, I could see a double row of white columns, close spaced and crowned with a band of white stone. The structure gleamed, so brilliant was its whiteness.

'See that there. It's a temple to the old Gods. You'll likely find one on every major headland — either that or some sort of burial mound.'

For a moment I thought he was talking about my Gods and the Elder Way, but then realised he meant the Gods whom his people had worshipped before they believed in the White Christ.

'They were built where they could be seen by passing sailors,' the captain went on. 'I reckon that in former times the mariners prayed when they saw those temples, asking their heathen gods to give them safe passage, or thanking them for a voyage safely completed. Like today I lit a candle and said a prayer to St Nicholas of Myra, patron saint of mariners, before I embarked.'

'Who were those older Gods?' I asked.

'Don't know,' he answered. 'But they seem to have been some sort of family, ruled over by a father god, with other Gods responsible for the weather for crops, for war and such like.'

Much like my own Gods, I thought.

Our vessel was far ahead of the most optimistic schedule, and when we rounded Taenarum cape and reached the place where Harald's two ships were due to meet us, I was not surprised that the sea was empty. There was no sign yet of the two monocylon, and I had some difficulty in persuading Theodore that we should wait a few extra days. He was well aware that we were entering the area where piracy was rife, but he was also worried by the risk of dawdling off a dangerous shore.

'As I told you,' he said, gesturing towards the distant horizon where we could see the faint line of the coast, 'there's no harbour over there, and if the wind swings round and strengthens we could be in trouble.' ,

In the end he agreed to wait three days, and we spent them tacking back and forth, then drifting each night with sails furled. Each morning we hoisted our lookout, seated on a wooden cradle, to the masthead, and there he clung, gazing to the north, the direction from which we expected Harald's ships to arrive.

At dawn on the third day, as he was being hauled up to his vantage point and glancing around, the lookout let out a warning shout. A vessel was approaching from the south-west. Theodore jumped up on the rail, gazed in that direction, then leaped back on deck and came striding towards me. Any hint of his usual friendliness was gone. Fury was mingled with suspicion in his expression.

'Is that why you wanted us to wait?' he shouted, seizing me by the arm and bringing his face up close. His breath smelled overpoweringly of garum, the rotten fish sauce the sailors relished. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me.

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Over there,' he shouted, waving towards the distant sail. 'Don't tell me you weren't expecting that. I should have known it all along. You treacherous savage. You lied about waiting for an escort. That's a Saracen ship twice our size, and you're the reason why she turned up here so conveniently.'

'How can you be so sure she's an Arab vessel? No one can tell at this distance,' I defended myself.

'Oh, yes I can,' the captain snarled, his fingers digging deeper into my arm. 'See how she's rigged. Three triangular sails on three masts. She's an Arab galea out of Sicily or—'

'Keep calm,' I interrupted. 'I've no idea how that ship happens to be here just now. Even if you don't believe me, we're wasting time. Set all sail, get your oarsmen to stand by, steer north. I'm sure our escort ships are well on their way, and we should meet up with them before the Saracens catch us.'

The Greek captain laughed bitterly. 'No chance. If that Saracen ship is the one I think she is, we won't get far. You know what "galea" means. It's our word for a swordfish, and if you've ever seen a swordfish racing in for the attack, you'd know she'll catch us. Probably by noon, and there's no way out. There isn't even a friendly harbour where we can seek refuge.'

His words reminded me of the map Harald had sent. I fumbled in my satchel and pulled out his chart. 'Here, what about this?' I tapped the nauthiz rune. 'Isn't that the reason for this mark. It's a place to go if we're in distress.'

The captain looked at me with dislike. 'Why should I trust you now?' he said grimly.

'You don't need to,' I replied, 'but if you're right, and that Arab vessel is as fast and dangerous as you say, you've no other choice.'

He thought about it for a moment, then angrily spun on his heel and began yelling at his crew to set all sail, then get themselves to the oar benches. Taking the helm, he steered the dorkon on a slanting course towards the distant coast. He didn't even look at me, but set his jaw and concentrated on getting the best speed from his ship.

Even the most ignorant sailor would have seen that our vessel was no match for the Arab galea. We were light and quick for a merchant vessel, but the Arab had been designed as a pure seagoing hunter. She carried far more sail than we did and was expertly handled. Worse, the southerly breeze suited her to perfection and she began to overhaul us so rapidly, her bow slicing through the sea and sending up a curl of white foam, that I wondered if we would even get as far as the coast. I had been in a sea chase years earlier, pursued by longships, and we had gained temporary advantage by running across a sandbar into waters too shallow for our enemies. But this was not an option now. As the coast ahead drew nearer, I saw that it was utterly forbidding, a rampart of cliffs directly ahead of us.

The Arab ship was undoubtedly a pirate. As she closed on us we could make out that she carried at least eighty men, far more than any trading ship would require, and they were chillingly professional in the way they went about their duties. They adjusted the three huge sails to perfection, then moved across the deck and lined the windward side to trim their vessel and waited there. They did not shout or cheer, but remained poised and silent, certain of the outcome of the pursuit. Up in her bows I saw the archers, sitting quietly with their weapons, waiting until we were in range.

Theodore knew our situation was hopeless, yet he passed from panic to a sense of defiance. Every time he turned and saw how much the gap between the ships had closed, he did not change expression but merely looked up to see that our sails were at their best, then turned back to face towards the cliffs as they drew closer. After three hours' chase we were no more than a mile from the coast, and I could see that Theodore had been right. The sheer rock face extended in each direction for mile after mile, yellow-brown in colour, sun-baked and utterly desolate. The dark sea heaved against the boulders along their base. Either the pursuing galley would overtake and its crew board us, or we would simply crunch against the rocks. Fifty paces from the cliff, our captain pushed across the helm and our vessel turned and began to run parallel to the precipice, so close that I could hear the cries of the sea birds nesting on the high ledges. Here the wind was fluky, bouncing off the rock face so that our sails began to flap and we lost speed.

'Get out your oars and row!' bellowed Theodore.

The crew stabbed at the water and did their best, but it was almost impossible to get a grip on the choppy water and they were not professional galley rowers. They looked shocked and frightened, but to their credit they remained almost as silent as the chasing pirates. Only occasionally did I hear a sob of effort or despair as they tugged on the looms of the oars.

Of course I joined them on the oar bench. I had rowed a longship and knew how to handle an oar, but it was only a gesture. Our sole hope was that Harald's two monocylon would suddenly appear, sweeping down from the north. But each time I looked over my shoulder the sea remained empty. To one side of us, and almost level now, the Arab galea kept pace. Her captain had reduced sail so he did not overshoot his victim. Half his oarsmen, perhaps forty men, were rowing to hold their position Steady. He was, I realised, worried that he might come too close to the cliffs, and did not want to risk damaging his vessel. I judged that he would bide his time until we were in more open water, then close in for the kill.

We were approaching a low headland which jutted from the line of cliffs, obscuring what lay further up the coast.

'Listen, men,' shouted our captain. 'I'm going to beach the ship if I see a suitable spot. When I do that, it's every man for himself. Drop your oars, leap out and make a run for it. So keep up the pressure now, row as best you can, and wait until I give the word.'

Soon the dorkon was lurching past the headland, so near that I could have thrown a pebble on to the rocks. Now the pirate galley closed the range. One or two arrows flew. The archers were hoping for a lucky strike, to maim a few of our oarsmen. Not too many, of course, because crippled slaves fetched a lower price.

Past the headland the coastline opened up ahead. To our right was a wide, shallow bay, but the beach itself was a mass of stones and rock. There was no place where we could run ashore. Theodore jerked his head at me and I left my oar to join him at the helm. He seemed almost calm, resigned to his fate.

'This is the spot marked on your map where we should be in case of need. But I don't see anything.'

I looked around the sweep of the bay. Ahead of us, perhaps half a mile, I saw a narrow break in the cliffs which rose again on the far side. 'Over there,' I said, pointing. 'Perhaps in there we will find a landing place. And maybe the entrance is too narrow for the Arab ship to follow us. If we can squeeze in, we might have a few moments to abandon ship and run clear.'

'It's worth a try,' grunted the captain, and altered course.

We laboured ever closer, heading for the cleft. But as we approached, I saw that I had misjudged it. The gap was wider than I had supposed, which meant our dorkon could slip in, but so too could the pirate ship if her steersman was bold enough. The skipper of the Arab craft must have thought the same, for he did not harry us as we crept closer to where two low reefs reached out, leaving a narrow gap between. Our pursuer even had the confidence to stop rowing: I saw the regular beat of the sweeps come to a halt. They waited and watched.

Sails flapping, our dorkon glided through the gap. As we entered, I knew we were doomed. We found ourselves in a natural harbour, a small cove, almost totally landlocked. Sheer cliffs of yellow rock rose on each side, banded with ledges. They enclosed a circular sea pool, some forty paces across. Here the colour of the water was the palest blue, so clear that I could see the sandy bottom, no more than ten feet below our keel. Despairingly I realised that the water was deep enough for the Arab galley to float. There was not a breath of wind. The cove was so tightly surrounded that the cliffs overhung the water in places, and if the lip of the precipice crumbled, the rocks would fall straight on to our deck. We had found the refuge marked on the map, and had we reached it earlier, even by a day, we could have concealed ourselves here and waited in safety for Harald's monocylon to appear. I had failed.

'We're trapped,' said Theodore quietly.

In the distance I heard a shout. It must have been the voice of the Arab captain prowling outside, ordering his men to furl sail and prepare to row their larger ship through the entrance. Then I heard the creak of ropes in wooden blocks and supposed that the

Arabs were lowering the spars as well. They were taking their time, knowing that they had us at their mercy.

'Every man for himself¹.' called Theodore, and his crew needed no urging. They began to jump into the clear water - it was no more than a few strokes for them to swim ashore. At the back of the cove was a ledge of rock where a man could haul himself out. From there the faint line of a goat path meandered up the cliff face. If we scrambled up fast enough, maybe we could get clear before the slave-catchers arrived.

'I'm sorry—' I began to say, but Theodore interrupted.

'It's too late for that now. Get going.'

I threw myself overboard and he jumped a moment later. We were the last to abandon the ship, leaving her bobbing quietly in the placid water.

I hauled myself out on to the rock ledge, reached down and gave Theodore a hand, pulling him ashore. He followed the line of wet footprints where his crew had scrambled for the goat path. Up above me I heard the clattering of falling stones as they clambered upwards as fast as possible.

Glancing back, I saw the Arab ship was nosing in cautiously through the gap between the rocks. Her hull almost filled the entrance, and her oarsmen had scarcely enough room to row. Several of the pirates stood on deck and were using the long sweeps to push the vessel into the cove.

I turned and climbed for my life. I had kicked off my boots before I swam, so I felt the sharp rocks cut and bruise my bare feet. I slipped and grabbed for handholds while I looked upwards trying to locate the path. Dirt and small pebbles dislodged by the Greek captain rained down on me. I was less than halfway up the cliff face when I caught up with Theodore. There was no room to overtake him, so I paused, panting with exhaustion, the blood roaring in my ears, and stared back down into the cove.

The Arab galea now lay alongside our abandoned ship, with about a dozen looters already on the dorkon's deck. They were levering up the hatch cover, and soon they would reach the bullion chests lying in the hold. Shouts from below told me that the Arab captain - I could clearly identify him by his red and white striped turban - was ordering some of his men to pursue and capture us. Two or three of them were already swimming ashore.

Suddenly, a speck dropped past the cliff face on the far side of the cove. At first I thought it was a fault in my eyesight, a grain of dirt in my eye or one of those black spots which sometimes swims across one's vision when one is panting for breath. Then two more dark specks followed, and I saw the splashes where they hit the water. Something was falling from the lip of the cliff. I looked across and glimpsed a sudden movement in the fringe of scrub and bushes. It was an arm, throwing some sort of object. The projectile travelled through the air, curving far out and gathering speed until it struck the deck of the galea. It burst on impact. I watched in amazement. Several more of the missiles sped through the air. Whoever was throwing them had found their range. One or two of the missiles splashed into the water, but another four or five landed on the pirate vessel.

From below me came shouts of alarm. The men who had boarded the dorkon began to scramble back aboard their own ship, while their captain raced towards the stern of his vessel. He was shouting at his crew and waving urgently. One of the Arabs picked up from the deck a missile which had failed to burst and threw it overboard. I saw it was some sort of round clay pot, the size of a man's head. The Saracens kept their discipline, even though they had been taken totally by surprise. Now, those who had been swimming ashore turned back towards their vessel. Others hacked through the ropes binding the galea to the captured dorkon and began to push clear. Most of the crew found their places on the benches again and set their oars in place, but they were hampered by the confines of the little cove. There was little room to row and not enough space to turn the galley. The Arab captain yelled another command and the oarsmen changed their stroke. They were backing water, now attempting to reverse the galea out through the narrow gap.

Meanwhile the clay pots continued to rain down. From several came spouts of flame as they struck. Fire broke out on the galea's cotton sails, neatly furled on their spars. The rolled-up cloth served as enormous candle wicks, and I watched the flames run along the spars, then catch the tarred rigging and race up the masts. More fire pots struck. As they burst, they spilled a dark liquid which splashed across the wooden deck. Sometimes the liquid was already ablaze as it spread. At other times it oozed sideways until it touched a living flame and then burst into fire. Within moments the deck of the galea was ablaze with pools of fire expanding towards one another, joining and growing fiercer.

The Saracens began to panic. Rivulets of flaming liquid spilled down and ran below the galley benches. An oarsman leapt up, frantically beating at his gown, which had caught fire. His companions on the bench abandoned their task and tried to help put out the flames. They failed, and I saw the desperate oarsman fling himself overboard to douse himself.

Then I saw something else which I would not have believed was possible. The burning liquid from the fire pots dripped from the galea's scuppers and ran down the hull, then spread across the surface of the pool and the liquid continued to blaze, even on the water. Now I knew I was witnessing the same terrible weapon that had destroyed the Rus fleet when it attacked the Queen of Cities two generations earlier. This was the Fire.

As the Fire took hold, there was no stopping or extinguishing or diverting it. The blazing liquid spread across the galea's deck, sought out her hold, ran along the oar benches and surrounded the vessel in flickering tongues of flame. The expanding fire licked the sides of the abandoned dorkon, and soon that vessel too was alight. Smoke was pouring up from the two burning vessels. The column of smoke twisted and roiled. Its base expanded and shifted, enveloping the wretched Saracens. Some wrapped their turbans around their faces to protect themselves, and tried uselessly to beat back the flames. The majority jumped into the fiery water. I watched them try to duck beneath the floating skin of Fire. But when they surfaced for air they sucked the Fire down into their lungs and sank back down, not to rise again. A handful managed to swim towards the open sea, heading towards the gap between the reefs. They must have dived down and swum underwater to get beyond the reach of the floating Fire. But their escape was blocked. Now their attackers showed themselves.

Along the arms of the two reefs scrambled armed warriors. Big and heavily bearded, wearing cross-gartered leggings and jerkins, I recognised them at once: they were Harald of Norway's men. They carried long spears and took up their positions on the rocks where their weapons could reach the swimmers. I was reminded of the fishermen in the northern lands who wait on riverbanks, on shingle spits, or at weirs, ready to spear the migrating salmon. Only this time it was men they speared. Not a single swimmer escaped through the gap.

Just five of the pirates managed to reach the rocky ledge below me and haul themselves ashore. Suddenly I was knocked aside by a Norseman leading ten of his fellows down the goat track to the ledge. This time they did not kill their enemy, because the Arabs sank down on their knees and begged to be spared.

'Hey, Thorgils, time to come on up!' It was Halldor's voice, shouting cheerfully. I saw him on the far lip of the cliff waving to me. I turned away from the massacre, a picture of those dying men seared into my mind. Weeks earlier, in Constantinople, I had come across one of the White Christ fanatics haranguing a crowd in the marketplace. To me he had seemed half mad as he threatened his listeners with terrible punishment if they did not repent of their sins. They would fall into an abyss, he screamed at them, and suffer terrible horrors, burning in torment. That image came very close to the scene I had just witnessed.

'You used us as bait!' I accused Halldor after I had climbed to the top of the cliff and found some forty Norsemen gathered, looking very pleased with themselves. Concealed in a fold in the ground some distance away was their camp, a cluster of tents where they had established themselves as they waited to spring the trap.

'And very good bait you made,' answered Halldor, a grin of triumph showing his teeth through his beard.

'You could at least have warned me,' I said, still disgruntled.

'That was part of the plan. Harald calculated that you would understand the meanings of the rune symbols on the map, and be so pleased with yourself for having worked them out, that you wouldn't think of anything else but carrying out the message. That would make the scheme all the more effective.'

His answer made me feel even worse. I, as well as the Arab pirate, had been hoodwinked.

'And what would have happened if our ship had got here earlier, or the Arab pirate had showed up later? Your elaborate scheme would have collapsed.'

Halldor was not in the least contrite. 'If the Arab had shown up late, then the bullion shipment would have got through safely. If you were very early and tucked yourselves away in the cove, he would have come looking for you. Naturally we would then have helped him, sending up smoke from a cooking fire or some other way of guiding him to the spot.'

I looked round the group of Norsemen. There were very few of them to have destroyed the most powerful Saracen vessel in the region.

'Don't you see the genius of it?' Halldor went on, unable to conceal his satisfaction. 'Both the pirate and that eunuch minister in Constantinople thought this was a double deception. The minister believed we would lure in the pirate to the fake shipment and the real bullion would get through. The pirate thought he had seen through that plot and would pounce upon an easy prize. But Harald was playing a triple game. He reckoned on using the real shipment as the genuine bait, and look how well it turned out.'

'And if the galea had overhauled us at sea, and captured us and the gold?'

Halldor shrugged dismissively. 'That was a risk Harald was prepared to take. As I told you, he has battle luck.'

I looked around. 'Where's Harald now?'

'He entrusted the ambush to me,' said Halldor. 'We stumbled on the cove when we were searching for pirate bases along the coast. Harald immediately saw how it could provide the perfect location for an ambush. But he thinks the imperial bureaucracy is so riddled with spies and traitors that he had to take every precaution. He sent only a handful of men to set up the ambush so their absence would not be noticed in Dyrrachium, while he himself stayed with our ships. They should be here in a day or two, and Harald will be aboard.'

I must still have looked resentful because Halldor added, 'There's another benefit. Harald's cunning has exposed the source of the pirates' information. It must be the office of the dromos. Someone there who makes the practical arrangements for the bullion shipments was informing the Saracens where and when to strike. Harald suspected this, so when he sent that map with the rune signs he set another trap.'

I remembered the officials from the dromos who had accompanied me on my first visit to Harald's camp at Mamas. Even then I had wondered if one of them had learned to speak Norse in the dromos's college of interpreters.

'You mean the spy had to be able to read rune signs if he was to understand the significance of the map,' I said. 'And only someone in the dromos office would have that skill.'

Halldor nodded. 'Tell that to your castrated minister when you get back to Constantinople.'

Harald himself arrived with his patrol ships just as Halldor and his men were beginning the task of salvaging the cargoes of the two burned-out wrecks. The water in the cove was so shallow that it was easy to recover the bullion chests from the dorkon.

Their contents were unharmed. Halldor's divers then turned their attention to seeing what had sunk with the galea. To everyone's delight it turned out that the ship was packed with booty the pirates had taken earlier. Many of the valuables had been damaged by the Fire and seawater had ruined much of what remained, but there was still a good deal worth salvaging. The finest items were church ornaments, presumably looted from raids on Christian towns. They included dishes and bowls of silver as well as altar cloths. The fabric was a blackened mass, but the pearls and semiprecious stones which had once been stitched to the cloth were unharmed. They too were added to the growing pile of valuables.

'One-sixth goes to the imperial treasury as the emperor's share, the rest is for us. That's the rule,' gloated Halldor as another dripping mass of plunder was brought to the surface.

Harald, I noticed, kept a very close eye on what was being recovered. He trusted his men to carry out an ambush unsupervised, but when it came to division of the spoils he made sure that every single item was precisely accounted for. He stood beside the makeshift table on which each piece of salvage was examined, and watched as its value was calculated. When a mass of silver Arab dinars was brought up, the coins melted together as a lump of metal by the Fire's heat, he ordered it to be weighed three times for value before he was satisfied.

Watching him, I could not help but wonder about his inner thoughts. I had seen him lie full length on the marble floor before the Basileus, who claimed to be the White Christ's representative on earth, and I feared that this lucky outcome for his allegiance might prove a step along the path that would lead Harald to favour the Christian faith. It would be easy for him to be seduced by the wealth and luxury. Standing with a group - Harald, Halldor, and several of his councillors — I was on hand when the most precious of all the objects recovered from the galea was laid upon the table. A Christian cross, it had no doubt been stolen from some rich monastery or church. Each arm was at least three spans in length, as thick as a man's finger, and embellished with patterns moulded on its surface. I knew from my days as a novice in an Irish monastery that to create such an exquisite piece was itself an act of great devotion. The magnificent cross lay upon the bare wood, giving off the dull sheen that only pure gold will give.

Halldor ran his fingers over the workmanship with admiration.

"What's that worth?' he wondered aloud.

'Weigh it and we'll find out,' came Harald's blunt instruction. 'There are seventy-two nomisma to every pound of gold.'

If Harald was naturally inclined to follow any god, I thought to myself, it was not the White Christ but Gullveig from my own Elder Faith. Thrown into the fire to be destroyed, Gullveig, whose name meant 'gold draught', always emerged more radiant than before, the very personification of thrice-smelted gold. But she was also a treacherous and malignant witch-goddess, and suddenly I felt a twinge of foreboding that Harald's gold thirst would lead to his downfall.

FOUR

'YOUR EXCELLENCY, HARALD plans to return to Constantinople now that the pirate menace is dealt with,' I reported to John the Orphanotrophus when I got back to the capital. 'He has already transferred the bullion shipment to Dyrrachium, where he intends to purchase a replacement ship for the Greek captain Theodore so that he can continue on to Italy with the army's pay. They may even have received it by now.'

'This Araltes acts without waiting for orders,' commented the Orphanotrophus.

'It is his nature, your excellency.'

The Orphanotrophus was silent for several moments. 'Corruption is everywhere in the bureaucracy,' he said, 'so the information that the pirate had a spy in the office of dromos is useful, though hardly surprising.'

His words had an undertone which made me wonder if the discovered spy was to be added to the minister's schemes. John was as likely to blackmail the informant into working for him as to punish the man. I felt sympathy for the victim. His position was not so different from my own.

'Does Araltes trust you?' the eunuch asked abruptly.

'I don't know, your excellency. He is not someone who gives trust easily.'

'Then I want you to win his trust. When he arrives back here, you are to assist him in any way you think will earn his confidence.'

When I told Pelagia about my new assignment that evening, she was apprehensive.

'Thorgils, it looks as if you can't untangle yourself from affairs of state, however much you try. From what you've told me about Harald, he is a remarkable man, but dangerous also. In any conflict of interest between him and the Orphanotrophus, you will be caught in the middle. Not an enviable position. If I were you I would pray to your Gods for help.'

Her remark prompted me to ask if she knew anything about the older Gods who were worshipped by the Greeks before they began to follow the ways of the White Christ.

'Theodore, the Greek captain I sailed with,' I told her, 'pointed out to me a ruined temple up on one of the headlands. He said the old Gods were like a family. So I'm wondering if they were the same Gods we worship in the northern lands.'

Pelagia shrugged dismissively. 'I'm not the right person to answer that. I'm not devout. Why would I be when I am named after a reformed prostitute?' She saw she had to explain herself and continued wryly. 'St Pelagia was a streetwalker who took the faith and became a nun. She dressed up as a eunuch and lived in a cave on the Mount of Olives in the Holy Land. She's not the only harlot to have done her bit for the Christians. The mother of Constantine, who founded this city, previously ran a tavern where she provided her clients with more than cheap wine and stale bread. Yet she was the one who found the True Cross and Christ's tomb in the Holy Land.'

Seeing that I genuinely wanted to know more about the older beliefs, Pelagia relented.

'There's a building called the Basilike on the Mese, close to the Milion. It's stuffed full of old statues which no one knows what to do with. Some of them have been stored there for centuries, and among them you may be able to find a few statues of the old Gods. Though whether anyone can identify them for you is another matter.'

The following day I located the Basilike without difficulty and gave the elderly doorkeeper a few coins to let me look around. My intention, of course, was to discover who the old Gods were and why they had been replaced. I hoped to learn something which might save my Gods of the North from the same fate.

The interior of the Basilike was dark and depressing. Hall after hall was filled with dusty statues, placed with no sense of order. Some were damaged, others lay on their sides or had been leaned casually against one another by the workmen who had brought them there. The only sunlight was in the central courtyard, where the larger pieces had been dumped. All were crammed so close together that it was difficult to squeeze through between them. I saw busts of former emperors, sections of triumphal columns, and all manner of marble odds and ends. There were heads which lacked bodies, faces with broken noses, riders without horses, warriors missing shields or holding broken swords and spears. Every few paces I came across inscribed marble panels which had been prised from their original locations. Cut in different sizes and thicknesses, the panels had once identified the statues to which they had been fixed. I read the names of long-dead emperors, forgotten victories, unknown triumphs. Somewhere in the jumble of statuary, I imagined, were many of the originals to which the inscriptions had once belonged. To reunite them would be impossible.

I was standing in front of a marble panel trying to decipher the worn letters when a wheezing voice said, 'What size are you looking for?'

I turned to see an old man who had shuffled out from the maze of figures. He was wearing a shapeless woollen mantle with a frayed hem.

'The best pieces go quite quickly, but there are some large ones at the back which have cracks in them. If you cut away the damaged areas, they're still usable.'

I realised that the old man had mistaken me for someone searching for scrap marble. Pelagia had mentioned that marble-work in the city was now made mostly from pieces of salvaged material.

'I had no idea there was so much derelict statuary in store,' I said.

The old man sniffled; the dust was getting in his nose as well as his eyes.

'The city authorities need the display space,' he explained. 'Every time there's a new monument, the sponsors want to put it in the city centre where most people will see it. But the city centre is full up. Not surprising when they've been erecting public monuments there for seven hundred years. So they tear something down and, if they're trying to save money, reuse the plinth. Half the time no one can remember who or what the original statue commemorated. And that's not to mention the statues and monuments which get pulled down when someone wants to build a new apartment block, or which topple over due to neglect or during an earthquake. The city council doesn't want to spend money on putting statues back on their feet.'

'I came here to look at the older statues,' I said cautiously. I did not want to arouse any suspicions that I was a heathen. 'Maybe I can find a representation of one of the ancient Gods.'

'You're not the first person to do that ' said the old man, 'though I doubt if you'll have much luck. Difficult to turn an old God into a new man.' He cackled. He still believed that I was a monumental sculptor looking for a cheap and quick way to carry out a commission by remodelling an earlier statue.

'Can you tell me the best place to look?'

The old man shrugged. 'Can't help you there,' he replied curtly. 'Could be anywhere.' As he turned away with complete lack of interest, I reflected that when the old Gods were discarded, they fell into oblivion.

I spent the next few hours nosing around the Basilike. Nowhere did I find a statue that resembled the Gods I believed in, though I did find what was obviously a sea god, for he had a fishy tail and carried a seashell in one hand. But he was not Njord, my own God of the Sea, so I presumed he belonged to a different faith. In one corner I saw a well-muscled statue sporting a bushy beard, and thought I had stumbled across Thor. But, looking more closely, I changed my mind. The unknown God carried a club, not a hammer. No True Believer would have failed to show Mjollnir, or Thor's iron gloves and strength-giving belt. The other effigy which raised my hopes was the contorted figure of a man pinioned to a rock. The writhing figure was obviously in torment, and I thought it might be Loki the trickster whom the Gods punished by tying him to a rock, using the entrails of his own son as his bonds. But I could see no trace of the serpent whose venom would fall on Loki's face if it was not collected in a bowl by his faithful wife Sigyn, nor a statue of Sigyn herself. The carving remained a mystery, and I was disappointed that I found no trace whatever of the God whom I expected to be there — Odinn. And among all the inscriptions I saw not a single rune letter.

I had reached the very back of the last storage hall when I finally came across one image that I could identify for certain. The carving was done on a panel, and there were holes drilled for the attachment points where it had been fixed on public display. It was a picture of the three Norns, the women who weave the fate of all beings. One of them was spinning, another measuring, and the third held scissors. As I gazed at the panel, it occurred to me that here, perhaps, was a message that I should heed. Not even the Gods themselves can alter the destiny that the Norns have woven, so there was nothing that I could do to change the ultimate fate of the Elder Way. It was better that I should try to understand what was replacing it.

Perhaps Odinn put that thought into my head, because he soon arranged for me to fulfil my wish. On my return to the guards barracks, a message was waiting for me from John's sekreton. It informed me that I had been seconded to the staff of Araltes, and my duty was to act as his interpreter with protomaistor Trdat on a mission of great importance. When I showed the message to Pelagia and asked her if she knew about this Trdat, what he did or where he was going, she seemed baffled.

'A lot of citizens would know the name of Trdat,' she said, 'but it can't be the same man. He was the protomaistor, the master builder, who repaired the church of Hagia Sophia, the Holy Wisdom, after it had been damaged in an earthquake. But that was in my grandparents' time. That Trdat must be long dead by now. He was an Armenian, a genius as an architect. It is said that no one else had the talent to make such an elegant repair. Maybe this Trdat is his grandson, or his great-nephew. The role of protomaistor passes down through families.'

'And what about this mysterious mission of great importance the Orphanotrophus mentions? Does the gossip in the marketplace have any clues as to what that might be?'

'No doubt it has something to do with the Basileus,' she answered. 'His sickness — even though you still don't want to call it that — isn't getting any better. In fact it has been growing worse. It now affects him almost daily. The doctors are unable to halt the progress of the illness, so Michael has turned to the priests. He's becoming more and more religious, some would say morbid. He thinks that he can obtain a cure from God by prayer and religious works.'

'There's something else I need to ask you before Harald gets back to Constantinople,' I said. 'I didn't mention this to the Orphanotrophus, but Harald asked me to find out the best way of converting his booty from the pirate ambush into cash or bullion. And he would like to make the arrangement discreetly so that the authorities do not know.'

Pelagia gave a thin smile. 'Your Harald is already acquiring some of the habits of this city. But, as I said, you had better be careful. If the Orphanotrophus gets to hear that you are acting for Harald in the conversion of loot into cash on the black market, and not keeping him informed, you will suffer for it.'

'I will say that I was carrying out his instructions to win Harald's confidence. What could be more helpful than acting as his money agent?'

'What sort of loot does Harald have on offer?' Pelagia asked blundy, and I reminded myself that she was a woman of business.

'Silver and gold items mostly,' I replied. 'Plate, cups, jugs, that sort of thing, foreign coins of various countries, some jewellery, a few pearls. The pirate was making shore raids as well as seizing merchant ships before he was caught. His galea had a very mixed haul of booty. Our divers brought up a small clay jar from the burned-out wreck. It was packed in straw and carefully crated so it had survived unbroken. Our Greek captain was most excited when he saw it. He read the marks and told us that it was a dye shipment on its way to the imperial silk factory.'

'If that was a jar of purple dye, then he had every reason to be excited,' Pelagia told me. 'The dye comes from seashells, and the extract of twelve thousand shells is needed to colour a single imperial robe. By weight that dye is far more precious than fine gold.'

'Where could Harald dispose of such things without attracting attention?'

Pelagia thought for a moment, then said, 'He should deal with a man called Simeon. Officially he's an argyroprates, a seller of silver. But he also handles gold and precious stones. In fact he has another string to his bow as a moneylender. He's not supposed to be in that business, but he can't resist the eight per cent interest. The bankers' guild probably knows what he is up to, but they let Simeon operate because they find it useful to have someone who can do the occasional deal for them off the books. But it would be best if I contact Simeon first. He has a money changer's table on the Milion, not so far from the bread market, and we know each other by sight. If I make the connection successfully between Simeon and Araltes, I will want an introduction fee of, say, half a per cent.'

Pelagia was as good as her word, and it turned out that the half per cent was a bargain for the services that Simeon was to provide Harald with. The argyroprates always contrived to find someone willing to pay silver or gold for brocades, silks, boxes of spices, holy artefacts, even on one occasion a pair of lion cubs. In that particular transaction the keeper of the Basileus's menagerie in the Great Palace paid a premium price.

Harald came back to Constantinople shortly before Ascension Day, and barely had time for one private meeting with Simeon - at which I acted as the interpreter — before he received the details of his new assignment. His war band was to be sworn in as a unit of the Varangians-without-the-walls and receive regular army pay and accommodation. Harald himself was to select twenty of his best men and report aboard a warship loading stores and materials in the harbour of Bucephalon.

A copy of his orders had been sent to me, with a note penned in the margin by the chief secretary to the Orphanotrophus telling me that I was to accompany Araltes. I had lived long enough in Constantinople to know that Bucephalon harbour was reserved for vessels used by the imperial family. The only warship stationed, as far as I was aware, was the fast dromon assigned for the use of the Basileus himself. I had no idea why Harald and his men should be on board.

The intelligent-looking young man who greeted me on the dromon's deck quickly explained the situation. A civilian, he was slightly chubby with a glossy mass of curly black hair, and he had the look of a man always ready to find an excuse to smile or make a joke.

'I'm Trdat,' he said genially. "Welcome aboard. I gather that you are to be the interpreter for my military escort. Though why I need one is beyond me.' He spoke with such lack of formality that I wondered what he was doing on board the Basileus's personal dromon.

Trdat waved his hand casually at the taut rigging of the immaculate warship, the scrubbed decks and gilded detailing, the smartly dressed officers. Even the blades of the thirty-foot rowing sweeps were picked out in imperial purple and gold.

'Quite a ship, don't you think? Couldn't imagine anything finer for a gentle sea voyage in the best season of the year.'

'Where are we going?' I asked. 'And why?'

'Those stuffy bureaucrats haven't told you? Just like them. Always priding themselves on their discretion when there's no need for secrecy, yet willing to sell classified information if it swells their purses. We are bound for the Holy Land to see what can be done about the state of Golgotha. It's a mission for His Majesty the Basileus. By the way, I'm an architect, a protomaistor.'

'But I was told that protomaistor Trdat restored the Church of Holy Wisdom more than forty years ago.'

'That would be my grandfather,' the architect replied cheerfully. 'And he did a very good job too. That's why I've been picked for this commission. The Basileus hopes I can do as well as my grandfather. This is to be another restoration project.'

'Perhaps you could tell me exactly what is involved so I could explain it to your escort when they arrive.'

'I don't want to bore you with the details, and I can hear by your accent that you are a northerner - don't be offended, I'm Armenian by origin — so you may not even be a Christian. But the spot where the Christ died and was buried is one of the truly sacred places of our faith. A magnificent basilica was erected there not long after the blessed Augusta Helena discovered the True Cross and her people identified the cave where the Christ's body was interred. For centuries the sanctity of the sepulchre was respected, even when it fell into the hands of the Muslims. Unfortunately times have changed. In my father's day a Caliph, who justly earned the title of Murad the Mad, gave orders for both the basilica and the sepulchre to be destroyed. He told the local governor that no stone was to be left upon another. The governor was also ordered to close all the other Christian churches in the province and turn away Christian visitors. Since then we have had no reliable information as to how bad was the destruction of the sepulchre — the Anastasis or Resurrection, as it is known — nor what the ruins look like today. Murad the Mad went to meet his maker sixteen years ago. He was assassinated by a religious zealot - rather appropriate, don't you think? - and our Basileus is currently negotiating with his successors for permission to rebuild the basilica and repair the sanctuary. That's where I come in. I have been commissioned to assess the present condition of the buildings and make on-the-spot repairs. Those civil servants may be venal idlers, but they are good at keeping archives, and I've managed to locate the plans of the original basilica. But if the shrine is so badly wrecked that it cannot be restored, then I am to design an entirely new building worthy of the site.'

'That's quite a responsibility,' I observed.

'Yes, the emperor sets great store by the scheme. He believes it will show the depth and extent of his devotion, and he hopes he will be rewarded with an improvement in his health. I presume you are familiar with the problems he has been having in that regard. That's also why he placed the imperial dromon at my disposal. It shows his level of concern.'

To my surprise Trdat had not bothered to lower his voice when he spoke of the state of Michael's health.

He breezed on. 'Perhaps you could pass word to your military friends that we will be ready to sail as soon as I've loaded the last of the paints and tesserae — those are the little cubes we use for making mosaics. It should be no later than the day after tomorrow. My own staff - the mosaicists, plasterworkers, painters and the rest — are already on standby. Though whether they will actually have any work to do when we get to the Holy Land remains to be seen.'

When I relayed all this information to Harald, he seemed pleased. I supposed he thought that the personal vessel of the Basileus was exactly the sort of transport that he merited. Certainly when Harald and his men, including Halldor, whom I was glad to see, arrived at the Bucephalon, the Norwegian prince walked up the gangplank as though he was the owner of the vessel, not just the escort commander for an architect.

'Tell your Varangians that we'll be making just one stop en route,' Trdat said to me. "We need to put in to the island of Prokonnesos to pick up some marble in case we can patch up the place of resurrection.'

Already the dromon was moving out to sea under oars, every stroke closely supervised by the protokarabos, the officer responsible for the rowing. He was very conscious that people were watching from the windows of the Great Palace, and he wanted as smart a departure as possible.

It occurred to me that the protomaistor might well know something about the derelict statues in the Basilike, and I asked him if he had ever visited the place.

'Of course,' he answered. 'My father and grandfather, while he was alive, put me through all the hoops. They made me study everything an architect needs to know and more - geometry, arithmetic, astronomy, physics, building construction, hydraulics, carpentry, metalwork, painting. There seemed no end to it. Luckily I enjoyed the work, particularly drawing. I still get satisfaction from preparing diagrams and elevations. They positively encouraged me to visit the old temple sites, took me round the Basilike, and never lost the chance to point out the remnants of the old statuary on display in Constantinople. It's still there if you know what you are looking at. That tall bronze statue of a woman in the Forum of Constantine, for example. Everyone thinks it's a former empress or perhaps a saint. In fact, it's an early Greek goddess. And have you ever noticed the figure on top of the Anemodoulion?'

'The monument near the Forum Tauri, the pyramid with a bronze figure of a woman at the top, which turns and points with the slightest breath of wind? We have similar wind vanes on our ships and houses in the north lands, but they are much smaller and simpler in design.'

'Yes, that's right,' said Trdat, 'But how many people know that when they look up at the Anemodoulion to check the wind direction, they are actually consulting a bygone pagan goddess? But we'll talk more about this during the voyage. I expect it will take us at least three weeks to reach the Holy Land, even aboard the fastest dromon in the fleet.'

Trdat's company turned our trip into one of the most informative sea journeys I have ever undertaken. The Armenian loved to talk and he was free with his knowledge. He pointed out details about coastlines, described his upbringing in a family of famous architects, and introduced me to some of the techniques of his profession. He took me down into the hold to open up sacks of tesserae and showed me the little cubes of marble, terracotta, different-coloured glass and mother-of-pearl. He demonstrated how they would be stuck into a bed of soft mortar to make portraits or patterns on a wall or on the floor, and told me that a skilled mosaicist, working flat out, could complete in one day an area as wide as a man could spread his arms in each direction.

'Imagine how long it took to decorate the inside of the apse in the church of the Holy Wisdom. Grandfather Trdat calculated that it required two and a half million tesserae.'

When we reached the marble island of Prokonnesos halfway across the Propontis Sea, he also invited me to go ashore with him as he visited the quarries where miners were cracking open the rock and splitting away sheets of marble ready to be sawn and carved to shape.

'Prokonnesos marble is so widely used that I find it rather boring,' he confessed. 'You see it everywhere - the same white stone with blue-grey veining. But it's readily available, and the supply seems inexhaustible.'

'I thought that most of the new marblework was made from salvage.'

'True. Yet many of those salvaged pieces came from Prokonnesos in the first place, and the quarry owners have been shrewd enough to pander to the builders' laziness. They prepare the marble pieces here on the island, carving out the shapes and patterns, and have them ready and waiting on the quay. You simply pick up ready-made segments for columns, and capitals and pediments in stock designs, but it restricts an architect's creative skill if he has to work with such stuff just because his client wants to save money. I know of at least nineteen different varieties of marble, yet if you were to walk around Constantinople you would think there was only one — Prokonessos. I love it when I have the chance to work with dark red porphyry from Egypt, serpentine from Sparta, green from Thessaly, or rose red from Syria. There's even a black and white marble that can be brought from the far end of the Great Sea.'

In the end my new-found friend selected only a few plain slabs of the Prokonnesos marble which, as he put it, 'were good enough to put down as paving around Christ's tomb if the flooring has been ripped up at Mad Murad's command'.

Harald, Halldor and the other Varangians kept to themselves throughout the trip, though I sensed they were itching to take the helm or adjust the dromon's sails. Her captain was a palace appointee with no apparent seafaring skills, and he had the good sense to leave the running of the vessel to the protokarabos and his assistants. Navigation presented few challenges as they could set the course from one island to the next, watching for each new sea mark to come up over the horizon ahead even as the last island peak dropped out of sight behind us.

As we were steering toward the distant loom of an island, Trdat made a comment which caused a jolt of memory. Squinting at the high ground taking shape ahead, he remarked, 'That must be the lame smith's favourite haunt.'

His words brought back an image of my first tutor in the Old Ways, Tyrkyr the German. He had been heating and shaping iron in his forge when he told me how Volund the master metalworker had been deliberately crippled by the evil King Nidud and left on an island where he was forced to work for his captor.

'A lame smith on that island. What was his name?' I asked Trdat. 'Hephestus the smith God,' he replied. 'That island over there is Lemnos. Legend says that it was the place where Hephestus resided. There's a shrine to him there and a cult still flourishes, so I'm told, though it operates in secret.'

'Why was Hephestus lame? Was he mutilated deliberately?'