‘Pirates!’
Nicephorus Argyrus ejaculated a few more words, almost as if he were angry at Haraldr.
‘Saracens, yes, uh, Afrikka, that is, Blaland . . . uh, Maumet’s men, heretics,’ Marmot-Man said, fumbling.
Haraldr nodded. Saracen pirates who sailed the waters off Blaland. He had heard tales of them since he was a boy. They were said to be vicious, tricky, and their ships were as quick as narwhals. But surely the Griks, with their fire-spitting dhromons, feared no pirates.
Nicephorus Argyrus went into a long discourse that sounded like a recitation of dates, names, numbers. None of it made much sense.
‘He’s recounting the cargoes that have been lost to the Saracens in just the last year. He says that he alone had to sell three good estates in the Bucellarion theme, as well as his monastery near Chrysopolis, simply to cover his losses.’
‘Monastery?’ asked Haraldr.
Marmot-Man looked at him incredulously. ‘A community of monks.’ He rolled his eyes at Haraldr’s continued lack of comprehension. ‘Black-frocks,’ he said as if to a slow child. ‘Men who devote their lives to Christ.’
Is there no end to the strangeness of these Griks? wondered Haraldr. So these black-frocks are Kristr’s wizards. And wealthy men can buy and sell them like trains of Pecheneg slaves!
Nicephorus Argyrus rapped the mosaic map impatiently.
‘He offers you ten fast ships with tackle and provisions, one solidus per man guaranteed, and thirty per cent of any booty above twenty solidi of gold per man.’
‘How much is a solidus?’ asked Haraldr coolly. He was determined to deal hard, as he had seen his brother Olaf do so many times.
Nicephorus Argyrus unlocked a small cabinet set in to the wall next to the map. He removed a bulging chamois sack, thudded it onto the table, removed a small embossed gold coin, held up one finger, and said, ‘Solidus.’
Haraldr pondered. Twenty solidi was considerable gold, though only a fraction of the entrance fee for the Imperial Guard. But catch the pirates when they were laden with plunder – that would be essential to vanquishing them, anyway – and yes, they could well exceed such sums.
‘Your ships,’ asked Haraldr. ‘Describe their construction, number of benches, armaments and condition.’
Nicephorus Argyrus rattled off specifications. The ships were light galleys of the type that had initially greeted the Rus fleet in the Bosporus: thirty benches, about the size of a Norse dragon. They had heavy arrow launchers, but of course Haraldr must understand that only Imperial vessels were permitted to carry ‘liquid fire’.
‘Ten solidi per man guaranteed,’ shot back Haraldr. ‘Fifty per cent of all booty, period.’
Nicephorus Argyrus frowned at Marmot-Man and barked something in Greek that was not translated, but the general thrust was clear: ‘I thought you told me this boy was a bumpkin who would trade a dozen gold arm rings for an iron kettle.’ Then he turned his comments to Haraldr.
‘He doesn’t think you understand your position here,’ translated Marmot-Man with a slithering menace in his voice. ‘You have entered the city under his escort, with the assurance to the authorities that you were in his employ. And you have enemies here, perhaps even in this house, against whom only Nicephorus Argyrus can protect you. His terms are fair. Still, his generosity is legend. He will offer you three solidi per man, and forty per cent above fifteen solidi. He’s taking enough of a risk as it is. What if these pirates add you to their plunder? He’s lost ten good ships.’
Haraldr’s stomach churned at the bald reference to his enemies. And in this house? Was the Hetairarch in fact Mar? No, Norsemen did not smile at their mortal foes. Then it occurred to him that it was in the nature of the Griks to hide the problem at hand behind an imaginary concern. Yes, he told himself, you’ve struck this Nicephorus Argyrus a good blow. Follow it up.
‘And my men are risking their lives,’ said Haraldr with a hard edge on his voice. ‘What good are your ten ships sitting in the harbour? Does Nicephorus Argyrus think that five hundred more Varangians will come down the Dnieper tomorrow? If he doesn’t like my terms, let him find some camel drivers to sail his ships. We Norsemen know what our skills are worth.’
Nicephorus Argyrus clapped his hands sharply. The doors to the little room slid open immediately, and in popped two stocky, dark-faced men in steel jerkins. They aimed the steel points of their spears at Haraldr. He leapt forward and grabbed a shaft with each hand and jerked the spears back so violently that the guards crashed against the wall. He kneed one guard in the gut and left him doubled up on the floor, then dropped the other with a mighty hand slap to his ear. He picked up one of the spears and turned on Nicephorus Argyrus.
‘You have just raised our fee by ten solidi a man and twenty per cent,’ growled Haraldr. The terrified Marmot-Man meekly repeated the figures.
Nicephorus Argyrus’s eyes revealed more surprise than terror; he had clearly seen death before. After a moment the coal-coloured irises brightened, and he grinned slyly before beginning his response.
‘He asks you to put away your weapon. He says a man with your special skills is certainly worth the extra pay, though it will probably cost him his profit and then some. He’s doing this as a service to the Empire.’
Of course, thought Haraldr. He’s probably already extorted the entire cost of the expedition – as well as a good profit -from the other merchants who ship in those waters.
‘He says that now that our business is concluded, he wants you to eat well. You’ll need your strength out there.’ Nicephorus Argyrus reached up and put his arm around Haraldr and began walking him out of the room. Marmot-Man followed with a running translation. ‘Yes, the risks are great but I have every expectation of a successful venture. After all, you Varangians grow up fighting on the sea. Why, I might even gain some profit in the end. Why not? Of course you’ll be a rich man. And when you return we’ll talk about making you wealthier still, and by that I don’t mean chasing more Saracens around Italia. There are still some superlative properties for the taking out there, particularly Thrace and Thessalonica, where the Bulgars will never touch them;, they’re undervalued simply because the Dhynatoi have this prejudice about setting foot west of the land wall. Of course, if you really want to ruin the value of even an eastern estate, send the son of a Magister out there to manage it. Yes, my friend, I’m the one to talk to if land is your business. It’s not enough to know what to buy, it’s the “when” that makes the difference between profit and penury. I always buy after a raid, and sell when everyone says the frontier has never been quieter. . . .’
Nicephorus Argyrus’s guests dined on silver plates embossed with scenes of legendary heroes and sipped wine from carved agate goblets rimmed with silver and pearls. It was an excruciating experience for Haraldr; he did not know which foods should be eaten with the hands – such as the tiny berries and fish roe and other curious morsels that were served before the meal – or which should be picked to bits with the curious little silver ladles and prongs each guest had been provided. And even when Haraldr cued himself by watching the other guests, the effort in managing the delicate implements was maddening.
When not struggling with the dining protocol, Haraldr was surreptitiously studying Maria. Her nose alone was a fascinating work of art; it was narrow, with an erotic, slight flare of the nostrils, and somewhat long, very subtly curving inward along the bridge and then rising to a sharp, chiselled tip. She was a goddess to whom Elisevett and Serah were only handmaidens, and yet she sat between her Scholae companions as if she were their whore, touching their hands and nuzzling their shoulders.