Raven

by Giles Kristian

  ‘I took no pleasure in Raven’s ungodly deceit,’ he said, making the sign of the cross, ‘or in my own base actions. Violence is the last course only taken when there is no other way.’ He touched the sore-looking cut on his cheek. ‘I delivered some poor man quite a blow,’ he said, shaking his head, though I felt sure there was the smallest sliver of pride in him all the same, like a splinter from a short length of cedar.

  ‘Quite a blow? I’ll wager he choked on his own teeth,’ I said, unable to tame my grin. ‘I think I saw his ears fly off and slap some woman across the face.’

  ‘That’s enough, Raven,’ Egfrith snapped, raising a finger at me and turning back to Sigurd. ‘What of Staurakios?’ he asked. ‘And where is Theo?’

  ‘Sit down, monk, and you, Raven,’ Sigurd said, ‘before you give away our disguises.’ We sat watching the boats coming and going as Sigurd told us how it had gone for them in the Hagia Sophia. When Egfrith had screamed that the statue – which he told me was of Mary, the White Christ’s mother – was weeping blood, the kneelers and groaners had rushed from every corner of the place to see the miracle for themselves. In the tumult the soldiers guarding Staurakios had panicked and, grabbing their charge, tried to force their way out through the crowds.

  ‘I think some of the Christ folk thought they were trying to stop them seeing the weeping stone woman,’ Sigurd said, ‘and they got angry as wasps about that.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘In that chaos the Red-Cloaks did not see us coming at them.’

  ‘I near enough had to step over one of them,’ I said, glancing at Floki, ‘and I recognized the knife in his throat.’

  ‘That was a good knife,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘So you got him?’ I said, meaning Staurakios.

  Floki nodded. ‘We got him.’

  ‘But we feared the Greeks would first come here to the harbour looking for him,’ Sigurd added. ‘They do not know our faces but they know Staurakios. For now Theo is hiding him deep inside the city where they will never find him.’

  It turned out that Staurakios had played his part too, dropping two Red-Cloaks with a ferocity, if not skill, that had impressed Sigurd.

  ‘But what I am itching to know, Raven,’ Sigurd said, wincing as he removed the felt hat and scratched his head, ‘is how you came up with it.’

  I was watching two skippers yelling at each other furiously, arguing over who had been first to the quayside and so had the right to the berth from which another vessel had just slipped her moorings. One of the traders had had its bows half in the berth when the other had nosed in, so that now the ships were clunking together with the harbour’s calm sway whilst their crews hurled insults across a foot of sea.

  ‘I had been thinking of Freyja,’ I said honestly, then shrugged. ‘The goddess put the scheme in my head.’

  ‘Not Loki?’ Black Floki asked, surprised. I shook my head. ‘Then you have more luck with goddesses than you do with mortal women.’ I suspected he was alluding to Cynethryth. With a grimace I admitted that was true and said that if not for that worm Ealdred Cynethryth and I might have been married and breeding pigs on some small farm in Wessex by now. But the Norsemen laughed at that, Egfrith too as it happened, though why they thought that idea was so funny I could not say.

  We stayed long enough to see which crew won the mooring and it turned out that neither of them did, because some plume-helmed harbour master, all gold, mouth and strut, came at the prow of some runt of a Greek dromon and threatened both captains and sent them on their way, leaving the berth free for some trade cog full of wine jars. Which was just as well given that we needed a boat to take us back to Elaea. The skipper of this boat had barely tied up before he was casting off again, his purse heavy with Sigurd’s silver and us in his bows sampling the wares.

  ‘Which god put this scheme in your head, lord?’ I asked, pouring more wine into Sigurd’s cup. I was enjoying this journey a thousand times more than I had the one in that cramped fish-gut-stinking skiff. Sigurd banged his cup against mine, sloshing wine into the bilge.

  ‘Ah, this one was all my own,’ he said, his face towards the westering sun that was turning the sea to burnished bronze.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BACK ON ELAEA AND IN REACH OF HIS SEA CHEST SIGURD BOUGHT every last drop of wine the Greek had and almost all his water too, which was the sensible thing to do for two reasons I could think of. Firstly because the men were able to slake their thirst and they had fostered a strong liking for wine, and secondly because, having sold all of his stock for a good price, the merchant would head off south again next morning to resupply, meaning he would not return to Miklagard with news of a heathen war band camped out on Elaea. Of course, there was a chance he would pass another crew and tell them about us and they could take that rumour to the Great City, but Sigurd had told the wine merchant through Egfrith to stop at Elaea on his way back for there was every chance we would be thirsty again by then. And men set on becoming rich rarely tell others where to find good customers. Besides which, we had far bigger problems than that, as Sigurd was now telling everyone by the flickering glow of the dying meal-fire.

  The men’s faces had changed over the course of the telling and were now as grim as cliffs and dark-browed. They had been waiting on the sand and shingle when we had returned, hurling questions at us against the wind even before we had cleared the breakers, more thirsty for news than for the cargo we brought. They had wanted to know if the buildings in Miklagard were really made of gold and how many rich Christ houses there were ripe for plundering. They slathered to hear what the women looked like and how much silver it would cost them for a roll with a pretty whore. Even Svein had got over his sulking at being left behind, the scowl I had seen as we came ashore slowly melting, until he was grinning like Grendel chewing a leg bone as Black Floki came to the fighting part.

  The story grew taller as the wine jars grew lighter, so that now there had been twenty Red-Cloaks and the raised platform I had fallen from was as tall as an oak. Father Egfrith had even killed two men in our escape, which had a few of them slitting eyes and scratching chins, but clearly impressed others, and we let them lap it all up, revisiting the Great City’s marvels through the men’s changing faces, as the sun slid into the western sea. They particularly enjoyed the telling of my trick with the statue of the Christ mother and her tears of blood, shaking their heads and growling about how that was as low-cunning a ruse as they had ever heard of.

  Sitting amongst his own men, his patience worn thin as a hen’s lip, Bardanes had demanded that we get to the part about Staurakios, but Sigurd had refused to humour him, saying that he who rushes a good story makes himself almost as unpopular as he who demands the ending before the end. So the Greek had glowered at the jarl from then on, his eyes murderous as an eagle’s and the muscle beneath his black beard pulsing restlessly. But when, after deliberately dragging it out, it seemed to me, Sigurd finally announced that Staurakios was safely stashed and Theo with him, Bardanes and Nikephoros had nodded soberly and the emperor had taken himself apart and knelt to give thanks to his god.

  ‘Bastard ought to be thanking Sigurd,’ Penda growled at me and I could not disagree with that.

  Now, though, Sigurd was finished with the skald-weave of it and deep into the cold hard truth, which sobered men up like a walk through snow. There was no way, he said, that we could get ourselves and mail, shields and blades into the city. Even if we got past the dromons guarding the port, into the harbour and on to the quayside without the Greek soldiers knowing about it, the city walls would stop us. Perhaps we could fight our way through the gates but by then every soldier in the city would have come and according to Bardanes there were many thousands of them. They could close the gates and trap us inside the city and we would die. If by some miracle we got inside the city and fought our way to the palace, the dromons would return to the harbour, burn our ships and spew more men for us to fight.

  ‘Miklagard is rich beyond anything you have ever dreamt
,’ Sigurd said, at which wolf grins glinted by flamelight. ‘But it could not have become the city it is if its people did not feel safe enough to make themselves rich instead of pissing their breeks about who might be coming to kill and steal. It is my thinking that not even King Karolus and all his Franks could sack Miklagard.’ Lips sheathed teeth once more and I heard some grunts and gripes.

  ‘So you have told us how it cannot be done,’ Beiner the Dane rumbled, ‘now tell us how it can be done.’ This got a chorus of ayes from men who had been with Sigurd long enough to know that he would be sitting on a plan as a hen sits on its egg.

  Only this time there was no plan. And Sigurd said as much, telling Beiner that he needed more time to come up with one. This sank like poor Tufi with that Christ cross snagged in his belt, though it made me think that nothing was as heavy as a jarl torc, which Sigurd knew better than anyone. Men give their oath to a jarl and in return he must give them fame and silver, neither of which they can enjoy if they are dead.

  ‘What about you, Hrafn Refr?’ Beiner said, turning to me. Hrafn Refr – Raven Fox, the fox part because my reputation for low cunning was growing amongst the Fellowship. But like the rest of them I had been expecting Sigurd to pull some scheme from that silly hat he was still wearing.

  ‘This Arsaber lives in the Bucoleon Palace,’ I said, ‘which is so close to the water it might as well have oars poking from the windholes. We can swoop in like eagles and make our kill.’ Yet even as I said it I knew it could not be done like that after all, though until that point I had thought it could.

  Sigurd shook his head. ‘I have seen it over and over in here,’ he said, tapping two fingers against his head, ‘and every time we fail.’ Beneath the hat’s rim the jarl was dark-browed and sullen. ‘I thought as you did, Raven, when we stood on that hill looking down on to the palace and the harbour beyond. But that, I think, is the thing about the Great City. Everything seems possible when you are there.’

  ‘The gods have always favoured us for our boldness,’ Svein the Red said. ‘This is no time to become old women.’ This got some rumbles of agreement, but they were muted ones because the whole Fellowship knew that if Sigurd said something could not be done the chances were it could not.

  ‘You are wise, Jarl Sigurd, not to risk a direct assault on the Bucoleon,’ Nikephoros said, gesturing at one of his men to feed the fire. ‘Its walls rise from the water more than six times the height of a man. With a hundred men the traitor Arsaber could defend those walls until Judgement Day.’ The fire flared, staining Nikephoros and his dark-eyed Greeks red. ‘There is a small harbour,’ he said, ‘but there will be three, maybe four imperial dromons moored there. Your dragon ships will not get close.’

  ‘If Arsaber sees us coming it is over,’ Bardanes said, staring into the flames. ‘We are like the snake that has only enough venom for one kill. If we strike and miss Arsaber’ – a sneer slithered across his face – ‘they will crush us.’

  Penda dug an elbow into my ribs, making me spill wine across my breeks. I called him a rancid goat turd and followed his gaze to where it rested on Sigurd. It was dark and men’s faces were all shifting shadow and flame, but I saw what Penda had seen, which was the lightest twitch of a smile tugging at the jarl’s lip, like a minnow on the hook in the dark depths.

  ‘Nikephoros,’ Sigurd said, which clearly annoyed Bardanes who thought that the emperor should be addressed with his titles, of which, as far as I could tell, there were dozens. ‘Tell me again about the war between the Trojans and the Greeks.’ He removed his hat and his eyes glinted in the red half-light, though he kept that minnow-twitch smile below the surface. ‘Don’t waste your breath with the women and the fighting and the half-god warrior Achilles.’ Some grumbles at that because the men had come to like Achilles. He had reminded us of Beowulf. ‘Tell me again about the trick the Greeks played on the Trojans when it seemed they had lost the war.’ Sigurd stroked his beard, his eyes becoming slits. ‘I want to hear more about that wooden horse.’

  Nikephoros thought about this for a long heartbeat and then nodded, and it seemed to me that he enjoyed playing the role of skald for all that he was a piss-poor storyteller. So he began and most of us filled our cups again whilst others built up the fire and the sea lapped at the edges of Elaea. And, as the night drew on and men began to snore and fart themselves to sleep, Sigurd’s minnow grew into a codfish.

  We came at night, a full crew pulling Serpent’s oars with more men standing in the thwarts and at bow and stern. Our painted shields were slotted in the rails for effect and Jörmungand, our snarling prow beast, was mounted. The moon was almost full, itself a great burnished shield suspended against the immense black warp of the night sky. Moon-silvered clouds were the weft, weaving themselves in and out of the darkness as they moved westward on a warm breeze that brought the exotic scents of Miklagard to our noses.

  From a distance it had seemed that the stars in the north were tumbling down to earth, but as we drew nearer to the great harbour we could see those flickering lights for what they were, pinpricks of night flame leaking from the thousands of dwellings, palaces and Christ churches spilling off the hills.

  If Basileus Nikephoros was afraid he showed no sign of it, which was impressive given the risk he was taking in going along with Sigurd’s plan. If I’d been him I would have been bladder-clenched and trembling like a drunk the morning after with each oar stroke that brought us nearer to Miklagard. Instead, Nikephoros was grim-faced and straight-backed, his short beard trimmed and glistening and his eyes hard as rivet heads.

  ‘Here she comes, lads,’ Olaf yawped from the mast step, his face moon-washed white as a corpse. ‘Keep it nice and steady now.’

  A dark shadow loomed off our port bow, the creak of timbers and the wash of its wake whispering out there in the night.

  ‘I’ll wager the whoresons are stoking up that liquid fire ready to light us up like a king’s pyre,’ Gap-toothed Ingolf called from three benches back.

  ‘Shut your hole and row, Ingolf,’ Olaf barked, ‘or you’ll spend the rest of the night looking for my boot up your arse-cave!’

  Ingolf had only said what we were all thinking, which was why we were all twisting our necks every few strokes, watching the moon-dappled Greek dromon for the first flame that would tell us we were about to be roasted like pigs at a Yule feast. Nevertheless, we rowed and those of us doing the work were the lucky ones because the other men had nothing to take their minds off the grim thoughts of burning. Soon, though, we were into the sheltered water of the harbour, amongst the hundreds of other ships anchored and tethered and bobbing in that sleeping sea and manned by skeleton crews while the rest were ashore. If the Greeks were going to burn us they would have done it before now, for here they would risk us slewing into any number of other craft and setting fire to the whole damn lot.

  So far so good, I thought, watching Cynethryth who stood at the bow as still as the stone woman from the Hagia Sophia, one hand snarled in the silver fur of Sköll’s neck. The beast was tense and quiet, its tail pointing sword-straight behind it, which a wolf will do when it is hunting, and I shuddered at that because it seemed that Cynethryth and the beast could somehow understand each other.

  ‘Not long now, lads,’ Olaf growled.

  My bowels melted. I felt naked as a bairn and almost as helpless. We were wearing tunics and breeks and that was it, not a blade, spear or brynja between us, so that you would have thought we were giving a new boat her first sea trial in a peaceful summer fjord. We were unarmed and all but defenceless, but that was what we had to be for Sigurd’s scheme to have a chance of working.

  I pulled my oar and breathed the strange spice smells of Miklagard, wondering if our gods were watching – wondering if they could even see so far, for surely we were as far from the fjords of the north as a Norseman could go. But then, the Norns had woven our wyrds and so they must know Miklagard well enough. And if the Spinners knew it then so must the other Aesir, which meant that the gods
must be watching and if they were they would admire our daring to go amongst our enemies as defenceless and thin-skinned as old men. It was that thought which I rolled around my skull to try to keep my mind off the sting in my bladder.

  ‘Now I know how Týr felt,’ Beiner said, leaning on the sheer strake watching the Greek ship which we could see better now because of the flaming braziers lining the quayside. It was well said by Beiner, for Týr had put his arm in Fenrir Wolf’s mouth and that’s what we were doing, except we were putting our heads right in there too and having a good look around. Týr’s bravery had lost him his hand.

  ‘This place makes Paris look like a dung heap,’ Penda muttered beside me. We had passed the main ship-strewn harbour now, the sound of men carousing in the harbour-front taverns fading off our port side as we approached the western edge of the Bucoleon Palace. Behind the great walls the city rose into the black sky, its domes and palaces night-shrouded and only half glimpsed by the winking lights of countless small flames.

  ‘Paris is a dung heap,’ I said. ‘If we’re still alive come sunrise I’ll show you some sights that will make your eyes sweat.’

  ‘Hold your tongues, you blathering women!’ Olaf growled.

  The oars dipped and pulled in even strokes and I tried to lose myself in the rhythmic soft-plunge sound of it. Somewhere off our steerboard side a seabird took off shrieking into the night, its wings slapping noisily, and I wondered how Nikephoros’s Long Shields were faring out there in the dark. For they were rowing Wave-Steed to Miklagard’s south-western harbour. They would convince the harbour master there that they were from one of the imperial dromons patrolling the Marmara Sea and that they were bringing in a captured ship. That had been Bardanes’s idea and I had to admit it seemed like a good one, for we would need those men soon enough.