by Mia Marlowe
The poet chuckled. “You’re right. And your advice is such that I will happily follow.”
A servant stepped discretely into the room from behind a stone lattice. He made a brief obeisance before Farouk-Azziz.
“A thousand pardons, my master,” Al-Amin said, his high-pitched voice severely at odds with his size. “The bridal party from the North has arrived.”
“So soon?” Farouk frowned. “I didn’t expect them till next spring. Very well. Show them in.”
Al-Amin bowed and slid out of the room, graceful despite his bulk.
“You have personal business,” Yahya said, wiping his mouth and starting to rise. “My thanks for this repast. I will leave you now.”
“No, please stay.” Farouk-Azziz put a hand on the young man’s arm. “It is only the arrival of my newest wife. My trading partner to the north, a minor potentate in that frozen world, has sent me a bride to solidify our alliance. I have but three wives, so she will make the fourth.”
“Ah, but I have heard it said you are a connoisseur of feminine delights and that your harem is full of beauties.” The poet’s tone was tinged with admiration and just a touch of envy. “Surely you already have more women than the All-Merciful allows.”
“Truly, women I have in abundance, but wives? No.” He shook his head. “Is it not most fortunate that while we who follow the Prophet are confined to just four wives, no limit is set on the number of concubines a man might enjoy?” A sybaritic smile creased his face. “And of all the pleasures women can offer a man, the greatest, my young friend, is variety.”
“Are the women from the north fair to look upon?”
“Who knows?” Farouk said. “The men are a strong, handsome race and devilishly quick with a blade. They are utterly fearless, but unbelievably coarse in their manners. I believe their trading representative, Ornolf, may even be illiterate.”
“Uneducated savages,” Yahya pronounced. “No match for a businessman with your acumen.”
“They have not had the advantages of our education, it’s true, but it is a mistake to underestimate them. They are shrewd traders. I confess that Ornolf has bested me a time or two in our negotiations,” Farouk-Azziz admitted with grudging respect. It was part of what made the game worth playing. “You must stay and meet them. Perhaps it will amuse you to see what type of flower blooms in the cold north.”
* * *
Rika wasn’t aware of the eunuch’s reappearance in the pergola till he spoke from the shadows. “The master is delighted by your coming. Please, walk with me.”
They followed Al-Amin into the cool interior of the house, up a circular marble staircase and down a long veranda that was open on one side to the courtyard and dotted with doorways into various rooms on the other. Glimpses of polished onyx floors strewn with ornate rugs and costly mosaics flashed by Rika’s eyes, making her feel light-headed. When the eunuch finally turned into one of the openings, she was relieved to be able to wait behind a stone lattice to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dimness.
Through the ornate stonework, she could make out two men reclining near a low table, laden with all manner of delicacies. One of the men was younger, inclined to pudginess, and, after popping a trifle into his mouth, he licked his fingers in an effete manner.
The other man was older, his dark hair and neatly trimmed beard shot with silver, but he was firm-jawed yet. He was handsome in a fierce, hawkish way. The lift of a dark brow and the calculating snap in his eyes told Rika she did not want this man for an enemy. Which was her prospective husband? It didn’t really matter to her, but she recognized immediately that the elder man was the more dangerous of the two.
They followed Al-Amin into the room to be announced, Ornolf with powerful strides, Torvald and Helge toddling after him, clearly overwhelmed, and finally Rika. She held her head high, and reminded herself that her sacrifice was a small thing really, to ensure the life of her brother.
And the honor of the man she loved.
The younger man eyed her unabashedly and barely contained his snicker. The older man frowned and muttered something in Arabic. Rika couldn’t be sure but she thought she caught the phrase ‘red Norse cow.’ Then the man pasted a smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes and stood to welcome Ornolf. Rika looked down at the little Arab. She topped him by half a head.
“Welcome, my old friend,” Farouk-Azziz said, switching to Greek to speak to Ornolf. “I had not thought to have the pleasure of your company for some time yet, let alone glimpse the rare northern . . .” he faltered for a moment, obviously taken aback by Rika’s appearance, “moon of beauty you have brought for me.”
Farouk-Azziz’s dinner guest failed to disguise his disdain when he gazed on Rika. He murmured a few words to his host which confirmed her suspicion that the Arab ideal of feminine beauty was epitomized by the petite, dusky morsels already crowding her future husband’s harem.
Farouk gulped and stared up at her as if the sheer size of his new bride was enough to unman him. He whispered a biting retort back to his friend, a scathing remark about her unfortunate garish coloring and glittering pale eyes. Rika thought she caught him making the sign against evil with one hand. Obviously, when Farouk first suggested this union, he’d never stopped to consider that tall, pale Northmen must come from tall, pale Northwomen.
Ornolf balled his fists at his sides, Rika noticed. He must have heard the slighting remark as well, but he feigned ignorance, as he’d admonished them all to do at times. “The Jarl of Sogna is pleased to honor your request for a bride and has sent you a highly esteemed daughter of his house. Rika of Sognefjord.” Ornolf waved a hand in her direction and she inclined her head to the Arab.
How interesting that he seemed not to want her. She was strangely comforted by the Arab’s look of unease. It made her feel that she was not the only fly trapped in Gunnar's web. Perhaps this was her chance to break free. A small shivering started deep inside her. She hadn’t felt it in a long time, but she still recognized it. Hope.
“Alas,” Farouk-Azziz said. “An unforeseen complication has arisen that may preclude our arrangement.”
“And what might that be?” Ornolf’s tone was not sympathetic.
The Arab stared at Rika for a moment before collecting his thoughts. “A religious difficulty,” he said. “I am, as you know, a follower of the Prophet and people of the North are notoriously pa— your people are the devotees of many gods. Under the laws of my faith, I cannot enter into a marriage with an unbeliever.”
“We’ve come a very long way for you to remember this difficulty just now.” Ornolf glared down at Farouk-Azziz.
“My friend, you and I have established a long and fruitful partnership,” Farouk said. “We have agreed on so many mutually profitable trades, I had simply forgotten that there would naturally be this difference between us.”
“The jarl will be extremely displeased,” Ornolf said. “He will no doubt look to find another trading partner. One who will be a man of his word.”
Rika resisted the urge to smile. Gunnar would be livid. But it would not be her fault that the Arab failed to live up to his part of the bargain. Her pulse jumped. She and Bjorn could marry before they returned to Sogna in the spring.
“Do not be hasty,” Farouk said. “You wound me, Northman. You know I stick to my agreements, even when you have gotten the better of me. I would willingly take this Northern flower as my wife, but how-could I ask her to give up her gods and embrace my faith? It would be too much.”
The quick flare of hope sputtered and died. Rika’s first assessment was correct. The Arab was dangerous. With his well-crafted argument, he deflected all the failure of their union neatly into her lap. Gunnar would indeed be furious. At her. And Ketil would pay the price of his rage.
She had to do something to turn this back on Farouk-Azziz. Could she give up Thor and the rest of the gods? Magnus had taught her all she knew of them, but the court of Asgard seemed to have forsaken her. After all, they stood by and
watched, amused no doubt at her present predicament, without lifting a finger to help her. She needed time to figure a way out. Suddenly renouncing the Nordic pantheon seemed a small hurdle.
“May I be given instruction in your faith before I decide whether to put aside my own?” she asked in flawless Greek. Ornolf’s tutelage was proving its worth.
Farouk-Azziz jerked his head toward her, obviously stunned that she was able to follow their discussion.
Rika lifted a haughty brow at him. “When a ‘red Norse cow’ is moved to a new pasture, she must be given time to acquire a taste for different grass.”
The young man seated behind Farouk snorted and nearly choked on a fig. Farouk ignored his distress and stared at Rika, clearly reevaluating her.
“With your permission, Ornolf.” He bowed and pressed his fingertips first to his lips and then his forehead. “May I show this Northern moon the delights of my garden? You are welcome to observe us from the veranda to preserve her reputation, but by your grace, I would have private speech with her.”
Ornolf looked askance at Rika, and when she nodded slightly, he agreed. Farouk-Azziz offered his arm and escorted her from the room.
They walked together in silence down the long veranda and through the cool marble stairwell. The sun had set behind one of Miklagaard’s seven hills, but the garden still retained some of the heat of the early autumn day. Farouk-Azziz stopped next to the fountain where the air was cooler.
Very astute. The patter of the water would also cover their words, protecting their privacy from any who might wish to overhear.
“You surprise me, Rika of Sognefjord,” he said, wincing as though even the syllables of her name were harsh and jarring to his tongue. “In my experience, impudence and intelligence in a woman is not a likely combination.”
“Then I would have to assume your experience with women is somewhat limited,” she fired back. “You surprise me as well. I had been told that Arabs were a people of great courtesy and discretion.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “You have me at a disadvantage, then, for you had warning of me. No one told me that women of the North were so quick of mind and tongue.” He gestured for her to sit on one of the elegant carved benches ringing the fountain while he remained standing. “You are certainly no cow and I cover my head with ashes for having presumed to say so. My profoundest apologies for an unworthy statement.”
“Accepted,” Rika said. “But I never despise someone who speaks the truth as he sees it. It’s most refreshing.”
He cocked his head at her, like a fierce tiercel surprised by the fight in the field mouse he’d planned to have for supper. “A woman who values truth is also refreshing. Tell me some truths about you, Rika of Sognefjord. Why do you wish this marriage to go forward?”
Rika weighed her answer. If she’d been hurt by his insulting comment, she might have been tempted to hurl the fact that she was in Miklagard only under the direct coercion. But her heart was still so abraded by Bjorn’s departure, she couldn’t feel anything, certainly not this little man’s slight. Besides, it was better to spar with Farouk-Azziz than fend off his amorous intentions. She was grateful that he seemed as reluctant to wed her as she was him.
“Truth, like a rare spice, is sometimes best used sparingly. My reasons are my own, and I have not said I want our marriage to proceed.” She gazed up at him with a directness that seemed to unnerve him. “I have only said I’m willing to learn about your faith.”
“If you were a man, you would no doubt have been a judge,” Farouk said as he settled next to her on the bench. As the day dimmed to twilight, it seemed her strong features were less jarring to him. She suspected he liked her better sitting down. “For a woman, you have great subtlety with words.”
“Perhaps you have not spent enough time speaking with the women you know. And if I were a man, we would not be in your lovely garden having this conversation,” she said. “But I should be comfortable with words. In my own land, I am accounted a fair storyteller and a poet.”
“That explains much.” A flicker of respect glowed in his eyes. “I confess that poetry touches this jaded heart of mine and gives me more joy than all my trading empire. I am truly honored in my trading partner’s choice of a bride for me.”
“Ah, but by your own words, it remains to be seen whether I shall be your bride,” she replied smoothly. “The religious difference?”
“A situation I will endeavor to remedy immediately. I shall engage an imam for your instruction at once.” His dark brows nearly met over his hawkish nose. “Libidinous adventures with women I’ve had aplenty. I’ve never encountered one that challenged my wit. Until now. Your lessons in Islam will begin in the morning. Will that satisfy you?”
“Very well,” she said, then hurried on in a flash of inspiration. “Ornolf told us he cannot return to the North so late in the year. There will be ample time to give your faith a fair hearing over the winter. If I find I cannot convert or if I still find no favor in your eyes, I will leave with Ornolf in the spring.”
Farouk smiled. “You have just extended our betrothal by several months. Skillfully done. Remind me not to talk trade with you. During that time, you and your party must be honored guests in my poor home. And you must share some of your tales of the North with me.”
“I would be pleased,” she said.
“Rika of Sognefjord, perhaps we can make a pact with each other.” He stood and offered her his arm. “Let us agree always to speak the truth to each other and . . .”
“And what?”
“And hope for the wisdom to know when to speak it sparingly.” He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner.
Her lips parted in a thin smile. She could deal with Farouk-Azziz, but he would bear careful watching. “Agreed.”
Chapter 30
Bjorn plowed down the street, giving way for no man. The well-dressed, perfumed citizens of Miklagard skittered out of his path. He wished he’d encounter someone who would challenge him. The longing to strike something was fast building to a fever in his blood. He heard quick booted steps behind him, but didn’t turn his head. If it was a foe, he was ready. If it was a meddlesome friend . . .
“Where are we bound?” Jorand fell into step with him.
“To Hel, most like,” Bjorn said sullenly.
“Then we’ll need a drink to cheer us along the way,” Jorand said, not at all dismayed. He looked up and down the main thoroughfare. “Not a decent tavern in sight. I doubt we’ll find ale to match the brew in Birka. What do the Christians drink, I wonder?”
“Let’s find out." From what Bjorn remembered from his boyhood visit, the bazaar district contained several thoroughly disreputable establishments that Ornolf had favored.
Night fell over Miklagard and the change showed not only in the darkening sky but also in the character of the foot traffic in the twisted lanes. Honest merchants scurried to the safety of their homes, while cut-purses, prostitutes, and more than a few assassins for hire roused to ply their nightly trades.
The urge to fight coursed through Bjorn’s veins. He wished he had more than just a few silver coins jingling in the leather pouch at his waist. He and the lanky Jorand presented too sturdy a front to tempt an attack for so small a return.
The tavern they came to was even more squalid than any he remembered, dark with a haze of incense to cover more fetid odors. The place suited Bjorn’s mood. He and Jorand discovered that the Christians drank wine, deep and red. Bjorn downed eight bowls of the sweet, strong concoction without feeling the slightest hint of a buzz in his head.
Or the slightest numbing of the pain in his heart.
The woman he loved was determined to become the wife of another man. Not tonight and maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And there wasn’t a cursed thing he could do about it.
“How can she do it?” The words slurred over Bjorn’s thickening tongue. Maybe the red stuff was more potent than he thought.
“Practice, I imagine.” Jorand eyed the s
killful undulations of the scantily clad dancing girl. He nearly touched his ear to his shoulder, tracking her movements as she contorted into a backbend and flipped her heels over her head giving him a fleeting glimpse of her bare bottom. “Lots and lots of practice.”
Bjorn snorted. Jorand was being purposely thick. But maybe Jorand was right. No good could come from talking.
Action. That’s what he needed. Two uniformed soldiers burst through the door and demanded service. They were armed with short Roman swords, and moved with the sturdy grace of men who knew how to use them. Bjorn smiled.
“Hail, defenders of the city.” He staggered to his feet and gave them a mock salute. “Let me buy you a drink.”
The soldiers were more than agreeable. The older one, a grizzled veteran with one eye and hard, ropey muscles in his shoulders and bull-like neck, leaned against the bar and took Bjorn’s measure. “A Northman, are you?”
“That’s right.” Bjorn waved his empty wine bowl toward the serving girl and motioned for drinks for the newcomers. The other soldier seemed fascinated by the long broadsword in Bjorn’s shoulder baldric. He was half a head shorter than Bjorn, but stockier.
“Your empire is broad.” Bjorn tossed the girl a silver coin. “Where do you hail from?”
“You probably wouldn’t know of it,” the younger one said.
“Northmen have itchy feet. We are great travelers. Try me,” Bjorn challenged.
“Paphlagonia.” The veteran accepted a bowl of wine and hefted it toward Bjorn in thanks before taking a deep draught.
“Oh, ja, I know that province,” Bjorn said. “On the southern edge of the Black Sea, lots of mountains.” He also knew the region’s principle exports were pork and mutilated little boys for the eunuch market in Miklagard. Crude rumor claimed the women of the region were so homely, the men preferred coupling with swine or newly made eunuchs to avoid their ill-favored females. There was even an old slur on Paphlagonia he remembered from his last trip, one able-bodied Paphlagonians considered a scathing reproach on their manhood. Would the insult still grate its citizens?
