‘He assures this price is below the cost to him, Haraldr Nordbrikt. He only begs you accept because of the prestige your patronage will bring to him.’ Marmot-Man paused and reflected that this hand-wringing rug merchant, with his oiled brow and desperate eyes, had neglected to add a tip to the minimum fee that Nicephorus Argyrus, via his representative, Marmot-Man, was collecting for arranging audiences with the fabulously wealthy barbaros pirate-slayer. Besides, the perplexingly tight-fisted barbaros had already refused a number of tempting propositions from agents representing Nicephorus Argyrus’s own business concerns, and some of the proposals even offered legitimate profits! There wasn’t time to waste with this greasy carpet peddlar. Marmot-Man waved aside the scrofulous boy and crooked-backed old man who had carried in the merchant’s wares. ‘No, Haraldr Nordbrikt, slayer of Saracens, this merchandise is inferior, indeed to such a degree that this purveyor might well be reported to the Prefect.’
‘No more merchants!’ growled Haraldr in the passable Greek Marmot-Man had taught him during their long voyage.
‘Yes, I’ve asked him to go, Haraldr Nordbrikt.’
‘Not him only! All! All merchants!’ This time Haraldr drew his finger across his neck.
Marmot-Man nervously stroked his new robe of Syrian silk as he surveyed the mob of dealers in precious gems, icons, glass vases, carved ivories, Egyptian carpets, chased silver and gold serving vessels, furniture, polo mounts, and even concrete-and-steel strongboxes. The merchants waited impatiently in the courtyard of the Norse compound, bobbing up and down to practise their shrillest solicitations or jostling as they fought for position; there had already been several bloody noses and one attempted stabbing. And these were supposedly proprietors of the most respectable shops on the Mese, men who wore embroidered Hellas silk to work! Marmot-Man shook his head and calculated that there were thirty-five, forty tips still to be collected. And four – no, five – that would have to be refunded. And here was Haraldr Nordbrikt making like Christ the King expurgating the moneylenders from the temple! Still, had not Haraldr Nordbrikt given Marmot-Man a full Varangian’s share of his booty, which was ten times what Nicephorus Argyrus had paid him? Marmot-Man quickly decided where his true allegiance lay. He raised his hands and flew at the merchants like a peasant woman shooing a herd of lumbering oxen out of her herb garden. ‘Out! Out! Be gone quickly! Quickly! The Slayer of Saracens casts you out! He casts you out! You have angered him with tawdry wares and meretricious claims! Be gone quickly, before you bring his magical sword from his scabbard! Out! Save yourselves!’
Haraldr put his hands over his ears to block the unearthly wails of protest and withdrew into the barracks.
‘Marmot-Man described these for me.’ Halldor was sitting on his cot leafing through a sheaf of parchments. ‘A shipyard in Langobard-land, or as the Romans say, Italia. An estate, in a place called Melitene, which is somewhere off in Serkland. This estate encompasses ten entire villages. There are at least three score opportunities right here in Constantinople. A candle factory. A palace not one street from Nicephorus Argyrus’s. A home for black-frocks, or “monastery”, that includes a newly constructed “mortuary”, which is a building where corpses can be prepared for burial.’ Halldor looked up. ‘I think we could make some money on this.’
Haraldr simply groaned and sat on his cot. How many agents for such properties had already assailed them in the two days since they had docked and returned to their St Mama’s Quarter barracks? One hundred, perhaps, another hundred right now howling outside the compound gate like a starving wolf pack with an elk in sight. And then there were the merely curious, conducting some sort of strange vigil outside. Thorir from Uppsala had gone through the gate to fetch a ball he had kicked over the wall, and so many of the men, women and children of a half dozen nationalities had crowded forward to touch his cloak that he had nearly died of fright; apparently they had thought that the towering, moonfaced Swede was the famous Haraldr, Slayer of Saracens.
‘We are invited to purchase other properties as well,’ said Ulfr, who had just descended the stairs that led to the second-storey gallery. ‘The Romans call them “ladies of the roof”, though I hardly know why, since they are always on the streets. At least they are all on our street. Right now there are three painted whores outside for every man inside. You would not believe it. The traffic is entirely blocked.’ Ulfr did not need to add that the noise from the street made the din of battle seem like the music of a mountain rivulet.
‘Well, let the whores in,’ said Halldor matter-of-factly.
‘Halldor may be right, Haraldr.’ Ulfr looked out into the courtyard where the Varangians were squabbling over the trinkets they had purchased, playing dice, wrestling, and throwing knives and axes. ‘Besides, breaking up all the fights over the belly plunder would give us something to do.’
Haraldr looked down at the cracked marble paving stones. If Odin and Kristr had not favoured him with his successful stunt in the oceans of Blaland, he already would have lost the confidence of his pledge-men. He shook his head at his two friends. ‘I don’t understand. Nothing. No word from the Imperial authorities, other than that eunuch tax gatherer who came to count our gold. Nicephorus Argyrus sends only this plague of merchants, most of them probably representing his own businesses, as if it is now our duty to serve ourselves up to these gold devourers like trussed pigs. Not even any word from rivals of Nicephorus Argyrus hoping to hire our services away from him.’
‘Believe me,’ said Ulfr, ‘you still have the absolute allegiance of your pledge-men.’
Haraldr smiled, grateful for his friends but unable to share their belief in him. He had thought that his newly won wealth would open the gates to the Imperial Palace immediately, and it was his secret, desperate hope that even Mar would be so impressed by his coup that he would accept him as a valued and respected ally. Mar. No word from him, either. The knifing guilt that he had not, could not, tell everything to his pledge-men. And each passing hour tightened the fetters of anxiety. Haraldr could almost sense his destiny being determined by forces beyond his reach, perhaps even beyond his knowing. Was Mar himself devising his use for Haraldr, or were others now taking up the threads of his fate, and those of the five hundred he had pledged to lead? Two days ago he had been a triumphant god. Now, waiting outside the walls of the Empress City like the mendicants outside his own gate, he was but an infant desperate for his mother’s breast.
‘Haraldr Nordbrikt! Haraldr Nordbrikt!’ Marmot-Man tugged on Haraldr’s sleeve. ‘You must talk to Euthymius!’
Haraldr took his sword from his scabbard and checked its polish and edge against the light from the freshly lit oil-light. Night was falling quickly, and the sky smelled almost like damp earth. ‘Is a Euthymius a merchant?’ he snapped. ‘An agent for some property owner? A tax collector? A whore? If it is any of those, I’d like to test my blade on this Euthymius.’
‘No, no, Haraldr Nordbrikt, indeed he is not, indeed. He is Euthymius. The Euthymius. You can’t imagine what his coming here means. Quickly, Haraldr Nordbrikt, quickly!’
The man who strode jauntily through the doorway was tall, perceptibly bony even in his stiff robe of damson silk, and he moved so strangely that Haraldr wondered for a moment if a Euthymius was another of the Emperor’s magical metal beings. This note of artificiality was heightened by the man’s face, which lay beneath more paint than Haraldr had ever seen on man or woman; it was as if Euthymius had been lacquered and dipped in wax. His long, sweeping golden hair scarcely seemed more real – had it been hammered from brass? – and his equally golden, pointed beard might have been bevelled with a chisel. He spoke, in Greek, without prompting, and sounded as if he were projecting his words through a large tin funnel.