by Mia Marlowe
Until she saw it. The early morning sun glinted on the curve of white marble. Its gigantic vault hovered above a circle of arched windows as if it had descended intact from the heavens and didn't deign to go all the way down to the level of mere men.
Situated on a jutting peninsula overlooking the Sea of Marmara, the great city flowed over seven hills. It was a grand echo of Rome, whose glory its founder, Constantine, sought to replace. The horizon was spiked with countless spires and pillars, each topped with a statue. Rika thought it looked like a village of giants, frozen and mounted on tall columns.
As they turned north from the Bosporus into the Golden Horn, the deepwater port of Constantinople, Bjorn came up to stand beside her in the prow of the Valkyrie. He tried to make the maneuver seem casual, but his heart pounded just standing beside her. When she wobbled a bit in the swaying craft, he put a hand to the small of her back to steady her. She leaned ever so slightly into his touch.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“It’s overwhelming,” Rika said, not letting her gaze linger on him for more than the briefest flicker. “It’s a city of such obvious richness. Doesn’t that mark it for raids?”
“Miklagard is well defended.” He gestured toward the high seawall. “On the land side, there’s a ring of three walls, each one nearly twenty times higher than a man’s head and so thick, no battering ram ever devised could punch through them.”
The pale marble buildings glowed in the sunlight and she raised a hand to shade her eyes. They slid past the imperial shipyards, where the emperor’s fleet was constantly expanded to the accompaniment of pounding hammers and rasping adzes.
“What if an attack came from the sea?” she asked.
“You’ve seen the seawall. It’s heavily guarded, so a pirate would have to think twice before trying to scale it.” Bjorn drummed his fingers absently on the Valkyrie’s pointed prow. The riches of Miklagard called to his Viking blood, singing a tantalizing tune of seduction. How could the city’s defenses be breeched? It was a conundrum he’d given some thought already. “The harbor is guarded by a chain that the soldiers pull tight across the opening at the water level. They think they can keep anyone from sneaking in with that.”
“What about sneaking out?” she asked, her voice cautiously neutral.
“Even with the chain up, I could get us out,” he said with certainty. There’d been no opportunity for them to speak privately since rejoining the rest of the party at the base of Aeifor. Each day, Bjorn had covertly watched Rika, wondering whether she carried his babe in her flat belly. Hoping. He’d had no chance to ask if she knew yet.
“Do we need to get out?” He willed her to understand his true question.
Rika gazed at him squarely. Moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes. There was a slight quiver in her chin, and he knew. There was no child. She blinked hard and looked away from him.
“No,” she said softly. “We don’t need to get out.”
* * *
As splendid as the city appeared, Rika was totally unprepared for its stench. Down by the harbor, she expected the reek of fish slime, but as they ascended the steep lane into a tangle of back streets, her nostrils were assaulted by the odor of rotting vegetables, trash-strewn doorways and raw sewage percolating from cracks in the terra-cotta pipes that carried most of the refuse out to the sea. The crowded tenements bulged with shabby occupants.
As they made their way upward, the character of the narrow lanes changed. No garbage littered their pathway in this newer neighborhood. The wholesome smells of baking bread, rich spices Rika couldn’t identify, and heady incense greeted them. Merchants offering ripe figs and green olives, and carts filled with huge melons and a wild assortment of unfamiliar fruits lined the streets.
Bjorn stopped by a stall, haggling with the proprietor for a respectable time before he bought a loaf of soft, sweet bread. He ripped it into fairly equal portions and gave some to each member of the group. After the rough fare of the journey, the bread seemed like it had fallen from the table of the gods.
The merchants hawking their wares called out in a myriad of tongues—Arabic, Latin, Frankish, Persian, Mongolian and, of course, Greek. Rika couldn’t help staring when she passed the African merchants, men as black as ebony in wildly colorful robes. She might’ve felt she was being rude, except for the way the buyers and sellers in the market stared frankly at her party as well. The Northmen dwarfed the people of Miklagard and even she looked down on many of the men scurrying through the crooked lanes.
“So many people.” Wide-eyed, Rika made a slow turn in the street.
“About a quarter of a million,” Ornolf said. “And a full fifty thousand of them come from somewhere else. The whole world comes to Miklagard, my children.” Uncle Ornolf spread his arms wide and breathed deeply. Rika suspected that part of him always longed for the wild beauty of the fjords, but another part reveled in this great city where so many lives met at its crossroads.
Rika thought she could pick out the natives of the city from the visiting merchants by their dress, Greek-style pallas. Most of the Byzantine men had neatly trimmed beards, but a few sported smooth faces. Not just clean shaven like Bjorn, but as hairless and soft-looking as her own. And their voices were pitched in her register as well.
“Eunuchs,” Ornolf said when he saw her puzzled frown. “The third sex, the Byzantines call them. Neutered males.” His lip curled derisively. “Hardly a household of repute has less than a dozen of them running it. We’ll see some at Farouk’s house. He uses them to guard his harem. Can’t see why a man would allow himself to be mutilated.”
“I don’t imagine they do allow it,” Torvald said.
“No, the poor wretches don’t do the deciding,” Ornolf admitted. “Usually it’s the parents. They have the younger son castrated so he can serve in a government post or with an influential family. I guess I never told you, Bjorn, but I got a very tempting offer for you from an old Greek courtier when I brought you down here as a boy. Once he found out you were a second son, he became most insistent.”
Bjorn glowered at him.
“He thought you a very pretty little fellow.” Ornolf didn’t bother to hide his smirk. “But I didn’t think he’d want a knife in his ribs, so I decided not to sell you to him.”
“A wise decision, Uncle.” Bjorn jabbed Ornolf’s shoulder with his fist. “Otherwise, it might’ve been your ribs with a knife in them."
Ornolf slapped Bjorn’s back approvingly, but so fiercely the blows would’ve knocked most of the Byzantines flat.
They continued upward, passing under the two-story-high aqueduct that brought fresh water to Miklagard from the mountainous region beyond the walls. Wide, marble-paved thoroughfares opened onto colonnaded forums and ornate gardens with splashing fountains. Several small carriages clattered on the stone paving, and the deep gong of bells from the city’s many churches resounded off the palaces and government buildings.
In Rika’s wildest imaginings, not even Asgard was as splendid as the imperial section of this city. But for all its beauty, Rika sensed the cold grip of treachery in the very air around her. She shook herself to ward off the fanciful notion.
Uncle Ornolf led them to the new hostel for visitors, known as the Xenon of Theophilos, to rest and refresh themselves. Later in the afternoon they visited the Zeuxippos, the opulent public baths next to the palace of the emperor.
“Can’t meet your bridegroom looking like a travel-stained bumpkin,” Ornolf told Rika.
So with dread curling in her belly, Rika bathed in perfumed waters and donned the best tunic and kyrtle Gunnar had sent with her. Helge fretted over Rika’s hair, which still only curled to her chin.
She really didn’t care what her prospective husband thought of her. Her only concern was how to make it through the next few moments without running to Bjorn and begging him to carry her away.
When she came out of the bathhouse and saw him, her knees nearly buckled. He was freshly bathed
and shaved, but his dark eyes looked haunted. She forced herself to look away. He was already burned on her heart, the rumbling timbre of his voice, the feel of his hard muscles, the smell of his skin, the taste of his kiss. She only need close her eyes to summon him, but looking at him now could wreck all.
Ornolf led the way to the Arab’s home. Bjorn and Jorand flanked Rika, with Torvald and Helge forming the rear guard. Rika sensed tension in Bjorn’s body beside her. She felt his agony. It was in exact harmony with her own.
As they walked through the streets, Rika saw more than one dark-eyed woman gazing long and hard at the tall Northmen. From her peripheral vision she noted that Bjorn ignored them, looking straight ahead. But Rika knew he wouldn’t be alone for long in this city. In time he’d surely forget her. The knowledge made her stomach lurch.
She glanced sideways and saw a muscle tick in his cheek. Rika recognized it as barely controlled fury. Why should he be angry at her? Didn’t he realize she was only doing this for his sake? She no longer doubted he could keep Ketil safe, but by disrupting the alliance her marriage cemented for Sogna, Bjorn would be branded an oath-breaker, a man without honor.
He’d protested that it didn’t matter, and maybe it wouldn’t for a while. But sooner or later, it would. A life without honor was no life at all. They both knew that. And he would come to despise her for destroying him. His love would turn to hate.
She told herself she could bear living without him. She could even bear a loveless marriage to a stranger. But she couldn’t bear Bjorn’s loathing.
They reached the home of Farouk-Azziz, a three-story affair just off the main road that presented blank marble walls to the street. From this position, Rika could see only one tall set of double doors and no windows. Despite its opulence, the house had the look of a prison. Her courage nearly faltered.
Ornolf rapped soundly on the door and the opening swung wide to reveal a portly, bare-chested eunuch. His broad, swarthy face parted in a wide smile as he recognized Ornolf.
“A thousand welcomes, Northman.” The man sketched a gesture of greeting as he bowed to admit them. “My master will be pleased to see you again so soon.”
Uncle Ornolf returned the gesture and smiled. “Many years and good ones, Al-Amin,” he said in the time-honored tradition of Byzantines.
Rika knew she was expected to step forward, but her feet were leaden. She felt rooted to the spot. Once she entered this house, there was no going back.
Bjorn scooped her up into his arms and carried her over the threshold into the large enclosed courtyard.
“What are you doing?” She tightened her arms around his neck, barely resisting the urge to lay her head on his shoulder.
“Don’t you remember? It’s bad luck for a bride to trip on her new doorstep,” he said loudly, then dropped his voice in an urgent whisper. “Even now, love. Say the word and I’ll take you away.”
Sharp-edged longing pierced her chest, nearly stopping her breath. There was nothing in the world she wanted more. Nothing except the life she wanted for him, a life of purpose and honor among his own people. A life he could never have if he broke his oath for her. She pressed a hand against his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath it.
Somehow, her mouth formed the words. “I can’t.”
The hopeful light went out of his eyes and the flat, dead expression returned. He set her down lightly and stepped back from her.
“Then good-bye, Rika.” He turned and strode out of the Arab’s house without a backward glance.
Chapter 29
Rika watched numbly as Bjorn turned on the far side of the courtyard door and strode forever out of her sight and out of her life. Ornolf gave an almost imperceptible nod toward Jorand and, on that tacit signal, the young man broke into a trot after his captain. The big eunuch closed the double doors behind Jorand, barring them with a massive piece of timber. Rika’s first impression of the house as a prison rang more true by the moment.
“Please, come with me and refresh yourselves.” Al-Amin led them into a vine-covered pergola in the spacious courtyard. He clapped his hands and maidservants appeared bearing silver ewers filled with rosewater. “If you will condescend to wait here, I will inform the master of your coming.” He bowed once more before turning to glide into the dark shadows of the house.
Rika followed Ornolf’s example and splashed some of the fragrant liquid on her face. Perhaps it would help her to feel something. She had the eerie sense of watching herself from outside her own body, a strange detachment from the actions of her own limbs.
All she wanted to do was hide somewhere and cry until there was nothing more inside her to spill out. There were so many unshed tears pressing against the back of her eyes, she felt the tension in her face creep down her neck. If she once succumbed to weeping, she feared she’d never stop.
“Oh, mistress,” Helge said. “Isn’t this a fine place? I’ve never seen the likes of it, so I haven’t.”
The Arab’s house was more than magnificent. In Rika’s wildest dreams, not even Valhalla was this opulent. The size, the ornamentation, the costly building materials and fine appointments of the house proclaimed not only wealth but exquisite taste as well. Rika sniffed. However gilded and perfumed it might be, a cage was still a cage.
The house was designed in a large square surrounding the open courtyard, in which a riotous garden bloomed. The lowest level of the three stories was devoted to stables and storage. The kitchens must be on that level as well, since Rika could smell the savory aroma of roasting meat and the yeasty scent of baking bread mingling with the homely scent of warm horseflesh and fresh straw. Water splattered into the base of a fountain whose flow disappeared into a low, white marble building in the center of the courtyard. Bathhouse, she surmised.
The boxy appearance the house presented to the outside world was softened inside by arches and sinuous curves. It seemed deceptive to Rika and she yearned for the straight lines of a longhouse. Inside the massive structure, every room on the second story opened onto a wide veranda. On the third level, the chambers had a window or a door with a balustrade that overlooked the courtyard. She saw no one at any of the openings, but she felt the oppressiveness of eyes on her. Her spine straightened.
Never forget who you are.
She hadn’t heard Magnus in her head in weeks, but the old skald’s voice was most welcome. Her mouth twitched. She would remember. A skald carried herself with dignity to generate the respect she deserved. Her heart was numb, and would likely never recover, but the poise of her art might carry her through the uncertain future. She hoped it would. It was all she had.
* * *
Farouk-Azziz leaned back into a cushion and popped a sweet date into his mouth. His young guest was enjoying himself, which was all to the good. Yahya al-Ghazzal, court poet from the Caliphate of Cordoba, had been sent as an emissary to the Byzantine court, and was thus worthy of Farouk’s notice.
It was always beneficial to have an ear in those labyrinthine halls of power. If Farouk-Azziz could cultivate a friendship with al-Ghazzal, he would have a useful source of imperial information without having to pay for it openly. In his years of navigating the curious webs of Byzantine intrigue, Farouk had learned that this type of insider gossip was far superior to the drivel collected by paid informants. And if the supplier of information was unaware he was being used, far more profitable.
“How do you find court life?” Farouk kept his voice neutral.
“Here or at home?” The fastidious young man dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a perfumed linen cloth.
“Either,” Farouk said.
More than two decades ago, Farouk had come on a diplomatic mission from the same Moorish caliph. He found the rich city of the Christians to his liking and stayed on to build a trading empire of his own. The long tentacles of his contacts stretched eastward to the Indus for silks and spices, north to the icy fjords for amber and furs, and south to Africa for fabulous gem-stones and ivory. Farouk could ea
sily afford to sit back and luxuriate in his wealth for the span of several lifetimes without lifting a finger to increase it further.
But he liked the game and he played it very well.
“Like our Saracen brothers, we fight with the Christians near us and trade with the ones who are far away.” Yahya selected a plump piece of roast fowl, drizzled with fruit glaze, from a delicate china plate. “The whole world is mad.”
“And if it were not, what need would we have for poets to bring us sanity?” A little flattery often loosened a man’s tongue quicker than the wine he used to ply non-Muslims.
“True.” The younger man accepted Farouk’s statement as his due. “Still, does it not seem odd that the Byzantines, who send men to fight against the Saracens in Jerusalem, trade and treat with the men of Cordoba, who are followers of the same Prophet?”
“Odd, yes,” Farouk-Azziz said. “And for us, most fortunate. It gives us a clear field in which to trade here in Constantinople without having to compete with our Saracen brothers.” He took a sip of iced pomegranate juice. The ice shavings were a decadent luxury he never denied himself, even though they came at great expense from the distant mountains. “What do you think of the imperial couple?”
“Oh, the Empress Theodora.” Yahya rolled his eyes and clutched at his chest. “I wonder at the emperor’s wit, allowing her to go unveiled. She is far more than a moon of beauty. She is the sun in full radiance. Anyone who’s seen her up close could not fail to be captivated by her dark eyes. I confess myself lost.”
Farouk-Azziz was mildly alarmed at his comrade’s effusiveness. “Bridle your passions, my young friend, or they will be your undoing. Just because the Christians are foolish enough to display their women, don’t think they will tolerate any indiscretion with them. Confine your lovemaking to poetry praising Theodora’s charms and you will do well. And find yourself a wife while you’re at it.” He winked broadly. “Find yourself two.”
