Lyashko’s ship, laden with wax, simply exploded. A ball of fire thundered back into the sky and rolled towards the vault of heaven. Only splintered timbers were left to be consumed by the flaming waters.
The rows of twin lights, their work done, winked out, leaving the blazing slick to light the pall like a solitary, eerie eruption from the darkest depths of the sea.
Haraldr spent the rest of the awful night staring out at the incandescent city from the prow of his ship. The dragon I have slain, he told himself, was merely a toy of the mind, a creature of my thoughts. Tonight I have seen real dragons, the creatures wrought by men, and they are infinitely more terrifying. And how, if I must, will I ever slay them?
The backs of the porters glistened, doused with the heat of the high afternoon sun. Haraldr stood uneasily on the dock, trying to regain his sense of the earth beneath him. He imagined he would never become used to the din of this city. It was a human cataract that roared, shrieked and buzzed unceasingly.
‘Five more barrels and we’re done!’ sang out Gleb in his happiest growl. ‘Then we’ll drink Greek wine and all have aching skulls in the morning!’
Haraldr was about to turn to Halldor and ask him to check on the progress of the off-loading of the other Varangian ships. They all needed to gather and discuss--
‘Haraldr Nor-briv.’
Haraldr stared in astonishment. The dark little man tugging at his sleeve looked like a marmot, dark and hairy-faced and no larger than a five-year-old Norse boy. He wore a dirty, pale yellow cap, tied round his head with a ribbon, and a faded, yellow silk robe with several tears and holes in it. He might have just crawled out from a burrow, but he spoke Norse!
‘Quickly, quickly, Haraldr Norbriv. You have five hundred Varangians conscripted with you. Nicephorus Argyrus knows; indeed he does.’ The marmot-man pointed to the crest of the city where the great palaces ran on endlessly. ‘Nicephorus Argyrus. Yes, indeed he does know.’ The marmot-man chuckled conspiratorially. ‘Well, he wants all five hundred. Yes, yes, you heard me correctly – all five hundred.’ Marmot-Man tugged frantically at Haraldr’s sleeve and tried to pull him closer. His breath smelled like fish. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. ‘Nicephorus Argyrus offers you five bezants to enrol each man, and wages to consist--’ Marmot-Man broke off and his dark pupils dilated with fright. He manoeuvred himself behind Haraldr.
Haraldr turned at the sound of hooves, clamouring on the paved street that ran by the wharf. Mounted on dazzling white horses, a contingent of perhaps two dozen men in short red tunics, bronze breastplates, and kilts made of leather strips swept aside the dockside traffic; they were armed with short, thrusting swords and long-shafted spears from which flew scarlet-and-gold banners.
The horsemen stopped in formation a few paces from Haraldr. A single rider moved forward, reined his immaculately groomed horse, and looked down at Haraldr. The rider had clipped-short dark hair and beard and taut, leather-tough, tanned skin. His hard, unflinching eyes were coloured like the Rus Sea at dawn.
The horseman peered around Haraldr and saw the cringing little Marmot-Man. He exploded in a fury of apparent obscenities, lowered his spear, and teasingly prodded Marmot-Man and sent him scurrying off. Then he turned to a handsome, barrel-chested blond man in the first rank behind him and spoke rapidly. Haraldr heard the words Nicephorus Argyrus, Varangian and Basileus mentioned. The dark-haired horseman didn’t seem faintly amused, but the blond-haired man smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and shook his head.
‘Aral-tes . . . Ork-vit. So-ree. No . . . talkTauro-Scyth.’
The dark-haired man held up his hand. ‘Wait.’
Haraldr understood the crude stab at his name and the message. But Tauro-Scyth? Was that the Greek name for Norse? As Haraldr considered this two more figures emerged from the dockside traffic and walked towards him; the two men daintily pulled up the hems of their street-length blue silk tunics and gingerly picked their way over the paving stones as if they were walking on cow dung. Haraldr immediately recognized the arrogantly contemplative Legatharios who had so studiously ignored him the previous day, and the short, blond-haired interpreter who had instructed him in the treaty provisions.
As he had the day before, the interpreter carried a stack of documents written on a curious, very thin, and supple membrane unlike any parchment Haraldr had ever seen; the neatly inked characters seemed to dart across the page like busy insects. The interpreter spoke for a moment with the dark-haired horseman. Haraldr sensed a controlled but still quite evident antagonism between the two; he also noticed with great interest that the Legatharios was ignoring the Byzantine horsemen as magisterially as he had the Rus barbaroi.
The dark-haired horseman reached into a leather pouch attached to his saddle and produced a folded, curiously purple-tinted document tied with a cord secured by two coin-shaped seals, one of red wax and the other seemingly pressed in lead, or perhaps even pewter. He handed it to the interpreter.
The interpreter placed the sealed document beneath a single sheet on top of his stack. Then he turned to Haraldr and read from the sheet. ‘First, Haraldr Nordbrikt, I wish to convey the concern of the Imperial administration over the impudent and unprovoked violation of harbour-protocol on the previous evening. Any further contradictions of Imperial authority can result in the abridgement of privileges extended under the terms of our mutual agreement.’ He paused and removed the message from the top of the sheaf. ‘We are almost finished checking off your cargoes. When the process is completed, the Prefect will require your entire contingent to re-embark for your final berthing place near St Mama’s Quarter. As principal authority over the Rus fleet, Haraldr Nordbrikt bears overall responsibility for the orderly execution of this procedure.’
‘St Mama’s Quarter?’ asked Haraldr.
‘The traditional lodging place for you Rus. Outside the walls.’ The interpreter pointed to the western terminus of the harbour.
‘Then we are not to be permitted into the City?’
The interpreter sniffed with contempt. ‘Once approved by the Prefect, the Rus will be admitted to the city. With escort, and in groups not to exceed fifty men.’ The interpreter cut off the discussion with a curt nod. He handed the sealed document to the Legatharios, who pressed it to his forehead and then kissed it. Then the Legatharios broke the seals, made no attempt even to unfold the sheet much less read it, and handed it back. Kristr, these Griks are curious, thought Haraldr. Does anyone here do anything for himself?
The interpreter unfolded the document and read it carefully. When he had finished, he spoke to the Legatharios, who snapped back at him irritably. Then the interpreter spoke to the dark-haired horseman, who responded in a steely tone. The only words that Haraldr recognized in the exchange were Varangian and Basileus. But there was also another name which was repeated – Joannes – always preceded by some sort of lengthy, tongue-tangling title. And the name Joannes seemed to settle the matter.
The interpreter glanced at the document and then looked at Haraldr and gestured with his hand as he spoke, as if paraphrasing. ‘This Topoteretes of the Imperial Scholae requests that in your capacity as commandant of five hundred Varangians you assemble your men when you reach St Mama’s Quarter. You are to be lodged separately from the rest of the Rus. When you arrive, present this order to the Imperial official in charge of final disembarkation. Then you will be escorted to your quarters.’