The Norseman who walked into the hall was a giant, as tall as and even broader than Haraldr, and yet he bore his enormous strength casually and gracefully. He had a sensitive, slightly feminine mouth and a high, intelligent forehead; the silk-fine hair that swept straight back to his jewelled collar seemed dusted with gold. Haraldr had expected Mar Hunrodarson merely to be a more detestable thug than Hakon; this man had the noble stature of a king. How could he be Mar? And yet if he was not Mar, who was he?
‘Who is that man?’ asked Haraldr urgently, his blood icing at the frozen look on Marmot-Man’s dark little face.
‘The Hetairarch,’ he answered with a tremulous voice.
‘His name!’ demanded Haraldr, irritated by his own rising panic.
‘The Hetairarch . . .’ repeated Marmot-Man weakly. He waved his arm like a drowning man, apparently trying to draw the attention of his master.
Nicephorus Argyrus had already moved to greet the Norseman with an effusion that he had shown towards none of the other guests; he chattered nervously and flicked his hands about. The Hetairarch glanced over at Haraldr, but the look was idle, uninterested. Maria turned to the Hetairarch and in a familiar, faintly erotic fashion touched the Norseman’s sleeve with her beautiful white hand; Haraldr could see the statue-firm contour of her arm through the gauzy sleeve of her tunic. The two officers who had accompanied Maria made no attempt to mask their glaring disapproval of this contact. Haraldr understood their ire; for a moment he, too, was a jealous boy, raging as he watched his secret love make love to another.
Nicephorus Argyrus flicked his hand towards Marmot-Man and without a word the Marmot-Man scurried away from Haraldr and joined his master and the Hetairarch. The three men and Maria studied him more than casually; their discussion was fairly animated. Unarmed, tongueless without his interpreter, Haraldr felt naked and chained. Had Nicephorus Argyrus been the ruse all along? Would Mar – if this was Mar – kill him here, a mere entertainment for the Empress City’s decadent elite?
The three men and the woman walked towards Haraldr, bringing along the other guests. The beauty of Maria numbed his fear; if this was his Valkyrja, then Odin favoured him even in death. Maria moved like a dancer, her hips swaying gently, exposing a heart-stopping curve as her flank swished against the sheer tunic. Her laughter was like music, her delicate white fingers languorously stroking the air as she talked.
She was close enough that he could smell her, an indescribable fragrance, like a rain-drenched, exotic flower but with the merest hint of musk. Her bow-shaped lips relaxed whimsically, almost teasingly. Her eyebrows were thick, almost gold-tipped near her nose, then thinned and darkened as they rose and fell in gull’s-wing curves.
Maria spoke to Marmot-Man, then looked up at Haraldr. Her eyes seemed to have lights behind them.
‘She wonders,’ translated Marmot-Man, ‘if you know that we Romans have a legend that a fair-haired race will destroy us.’
Haraldr was taken aback; her delivery had been trifling, yet the question was taunting, ominous and melancholy all at once. Let Odin reply, he told himself. An ancient voice whispered back. ‘Yet among us,’ Haraldr said with an evenness that surprised him, ‘it is the dark-plumed raven who heralds doom.’
Marmot-Man translated. The gull-wing eyebrows rose slightly, and Maria looked at Haraldr with mixed surprise and amusement.
Maria spoke again and Marmot-Man turned to Haraldr. ‘She wonders if you know this Tauro-Scythian prince everyone is looking for.’
Again the sword went through Haraldr’s knees. Could they have tortured Gleb? How many knew? His forehead seared. Even Odin could not offer him a response.
The Hetairarch saved Haraldr with half a dozen sentences in mellifluous, perfectly accented Greek. He ended his discourse with a wry smile but did not seem amused; it was as if he were scolding the rest of the guests. Haraldr was certain that his heart could be heard thudding in the chastened silence that followed the Hetairarch’s discourse. The Byzantines began to whisper self-consciously among themselves. The Hetairarch turned to Haraldr.
‘I told them to stop badgering you with that fable,’ he said in Norse; the accent was Icelandic. ‘I told them that a single Norseman could come sailing down the Bosporus in a hollowed-out log, and half the people in the Great City would proclaim him this mythical Norse prince leading the force that will finally sack Constantinople. It is incredible. They are surrounded on every side by very real enemies, but they have decided that we fair-hairs, who have loyally served them for three score years, are going to pull their walls down, all because of one incident lost in the mists of time, and a few prophecies. When you get to know these people as I do, you will realize that for all their knowledge, they are sometimes like credulous children. I suspect you might be worried about false accusations being directed against you or one of your men. But don’t be concerned. No one has come up with even a single hair of this supposed Norse prince, and the authorities have closed the matter. It was all rumours to begin with, and now it is nothing but dinner-party gossip.’
Haraldr’s lingering guilt was overwhelmed by relief. This man was hardly his enemy. Perhaps he was even a rival to Mar Hunrodarson. ‘Thank you,’ he said stiffly offering the Hetairarch a polite nod. ‘I can see there is much I need to learn.’
‘We’ll speak again, comrade,’ said the Hetairarch genially; he raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. Haraldr could scarcely wait to tell Ulfr and Halldor that he had discovered an ally, a Norseman with considerable knowledge of the Griks and their curious ways. Already he had been given priceless intelligence.
Maria apparently had become bored by the exchange in the guttural barbaroi tongue, and her lips grazed the ear of the stouter of the two officers of the Scholae who attended her. The fashion in which she smiled as she whispered was almost like a hand on Haraldr’s genitals; it was as if his previous conversation, with all its terror and relief, had been blown from his mind by a gale of lust. He was certain that Maria and this blue-eyed officer were lovers, and with a curious sensation, both sickening and thrilling, he imagined her naked and writhing with passion.
Nicephorus Argyrus stepped forward and placed his hand on Haraldr’s arm. He spoke to everyone and they laughed politely as he swept Haraldr out of the circle of guests. ‘My master told them,’ translated Marmot-Man, ‘that they can examine the fair-haired agent of our destruction during supper, but for now we must discuss the demise of the enemies of Nicephorus Argyrus.’
Marmot-Man and Haraldr sat behind a large ivory table; Nicephorus Argyrus stood in front of a wall covered with truly extraordinary mosaic. It was a map of the world that Haraldr had previously only vaguely assembled in his mind. Though the names were in Greek, he thought he could make some sense of the places. The gilt eagle certainly marked the Empress City; there was the thin blue slit of the Bosporus, the oval of the Rus Sea, Rus, Estland, Sweden, Norway, Anglia, even Iceland. But where were Greenland and, far to the west, Markland and Vinland? Clearly these Griks are not all-knowing, he surmised. Still, it was daunting to see the vast expanses of Blaland and Serkland that they had mapped; the extent of Serkland, which extended so far to the east that it seemed to wrap up half of the world orb, was particularly astonishing. Nicephorus Argyrus’s gold signet ring rapped against the mosaic at a point just below the boot shape of what appeared to be Langobardland. He barked a single word; Marmot-Man quickly translated.