Then began for me a time of alternating dullness, anxiety, and excitement. During the days, time hung heavy on my hands, with nothing to occupy myself beyond fishing in the Horn from a rowboat I bought for myself, or taking long rides out in the country on a hired horse, or exploring more of the city to the point where I could say without boasting that I knew every monument and church, every corner and byway of it. I stayed away from Apgar’s. Though I hardly knew her, I longed to see Selene again and I found myself thinking of her all the time. But I was ashamed to seem to be lying in wait for her.
Of course, there were repercussions to my knocking down John’s orphan, Loucas. Harald summoned me the very next day.
“I’ve heard from John. He’s so angry he’s ready to abandon our plan altogether.”
“I don’t like being followed.”
“It’s what they do here,” he shrugged.
“Anyone who follows me again, I’ll kill him.”
“You always had a bad temper, Tangle-Hair. An inconvenient thing, temper.” He paused for a long moment. “All right, it won’t happen again. But I have a right to know where I can find you.”
“You only had to ask.” I told him where my rooms were.
After that, from time to time, he commanded my presence to drink with him and his men in the barracks, to tell tales and recite poems, as a skald is supposed to do. (Stories involving Gorm’s brother Glum, the berserker and werewolf, were always popular.) But these occasions were never carefree, though I did my best to pretend. I could never forget for a moment that I was playing a double game. One slip, one careless word in Harald’s hearing could mean my death. Halldor and Bolli continued to act towards me like a couple of mastiffs who would tear my throat out if Harald should decide to let go of their leashes. At least, there were, for the time being, no more nocturnal visits to the orphanage.
But it was those weekly meetings with Psellus that I relished. I had to assume I was still being watched, although I couldn’t catch anyone at it. Any urchin in the street could be one of John’s orphans for all I knew. As instructed by the Logothete, we had arranged a series of meeting places: at the foot of the clock tower in the Augusteum, in front of the Church of the Holy Wisdom, at the harbor of Boukoleon, at the cistern of Aspar, and so on. And we always met an hour after dark. From there we would stroll until we found a place to sit and talk without attracting attention. After a couple of weeks, when I had nothing new to report, Psellus seemed disappointed. The excitement was wearing off. But, in place of this, we discovered that we had much in common and, strange as it may seem for two such different creatures as we, a friendship began to grow up between us.
Psellus was glad to spend as much time away from his gloomy home as possible. He gradually unbent and told me something of himself: how his younger sister, a beautiful and intelligent girl, had died of fever and his mother had gone insane with grief, cutting off her hair and tying it to the casket and, ever since, had lived like a nun in her own home, dragging beggars in off the street to wash their sores, and so forth.
“I lack her piety,” he said, shaking his head. “I wish I had it but I don’t.”
His father had left the family altogether and entered a monastery. Psellus, rarely saw him. (I was right in guessing that Eustathius was more a father to him than his own father.) An uncle now was head of the family, while everyone waited impatiently for young Psellus to make his fortune in government service. “I will open my heart to you,” he said one evening. “I love the work, of course, but it’s a lonely life. Every man in the bureau is a competitor, a rival for advancement and honor. We all hide our true feelings behind a smiling mask—a skill that you will need to practice, by the way—but it leaves no room for friendship.
In return, I told him my history: how my half-mad father had taught me poetry and rune lore; how my family had been slaughtered in a blood feud and I driven from Iceland to seek my fortune as a viking. How my crew and I sailed and looted from Lapland to Gardariki, battled crashing storms at sea, were enslaved by a witch and how we escaped. He was endlessly fascinated by all this, especially when I recited bits of the old heroic lays and tried to translate them into Greek for him.
“But it’s pure Homer!” he gazed at me open-mouthed.
“Who?”
And so began my education.
“Our greatest poet,” Psellus exclaimed. “Centuries ago he sang tales of the heroes who battled under the walls of Troy for the love of a beautiful woman. He told of the voyages of Odysseus and the monsters and giants and witches he outwitted—in this very part of the world that we now inhabit. It’s the sum and substance of our education. I was raised on it. And now I feel—how can I express it?—I feel like I’m sitting across the table from Odysseus himself. To us, they’re only words on a page. You have actually lived it. Extraordinary.” And he began to recite, Menin aeide thea Peleiadeo Achileos … Sing, goddess, of the wrath of Achilles son of Peleus … Greek, but a dialect strange and musical with many unfamiliar words, the syllables rolling off his tongue, the cadences marching as if to a drumbeat. And I, in my turn, was enthralled. Those long-dead Greeks—Achilles and Hector and the rest—could just as well have been Northmen. I felt as though I knew them, what drove them, what delighted them or shamed them.
From then on, I wanted nothing but to hear tales of those ancient Greek vikings and match them to my own. And Psellus would sometimes shake his head and wonder aloud, “What does it mean to call you a ‘barbarian’, Odd Tangle-Hair? Homer’s heroes were no more nor less barbaric than you.”
One night, inevitably, the subject turned to women. “I’m engaged to be married,” Psellus confided in me, “but the girl is only twelve and it will be two more years before we become man and wife. I’ve only met her twice and scarcely know her. I’m a man of fiery passions, Tangle-Hair, though I may not seem it. It’s hard to be patient. And what about you?”
I told him about my brief encounters with the mysterious Selene and how I despaired of winning her confidence.
“Life is full of coincidences,” Psellus laughed. “If it’s the same girl, then I know the family. We own a small silk works, you know. Now that my father has taken holy orders, my uncle runs it. He was an acquaintance of this girl’s father, if it is her—a man named Melampus. His wife had worked for us as a weaver and, after she died, my uncle hired the daughter to stitch brocade. It didn’t last long, she didn’t care for the work. I don’t know her personally or Melampus, though I’ve heard my uncle say the man will come to a bad end someday. One can admire the ancients and their priceless knowledge—I do myself—but you must be discreet about it. Melampus is said to be a magician and a devotee of the old gods and these are things that could get him burned for a heretic if he isn’t careful.”
“He sounds like my father. Do you know where they live?”
“No, but I can probably find out.”
One morning during this time, I was loafing along the shore of the Horn on the Saint Mamas side, when I saw the Rus boats loading up for their voyage back to Gardariki. After a stay of three weeks, the vessels were laden with great amphorae of Greek wine, bales of spices, coffles of slaves, bolts of linen and silk. I pressed through the crowd and found Stavko. He greeted me with a scowl.
“Churillo, you left hostel. Then I don’t know where to find you. So, tell me, what is happening with you?”
“I’m not Churillo anymore. I haven’t killed Harald, and I won’t. It’s simply impossible. You can tell Ingigerd that.”
He looked at me long and reproachfully. “Our money?”
“Is mostly spent, I’m afraid. I’m staying on here for a bit. I’ll get by.” More than that he didn’t need to know.
Stavko shrugged. “Princess will not stop, you know. Will send someone else—to kill Harald and you, if you’re still here. You were nice fellow, Odd Tangle-Hair. I liked you.”
And, with those words, he turned back to his slaves.
14
The Alchemist
/> Late afternoon on a wet July day. With my heart in my throat, I knocked upon the door and listened to the rattle of bolts and chains unfastening. The door opened to reveal the figure of an old man, very tall, with a cadaverous face. His eyes were deep-set, his brows dark and springing, his nose like an eagle’s beak. His white beard hung to his waist and tufts of white hair stuck out from under a black velvet cap. He was shabbily dressed, the sleeves of his gown out at the elbows. He had the complexion of someone who rarely ventured out of doors.
“Doctor Melampus?”
Psellus had consulted his uncle and told me how to find the house of Selene’s father. “But what good will it do?” he asked me. “You can’t just walk in uninvited.”
“I’ll invent an illness. Ask for some physic, an amulet. Say your uncle recommended him.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll think of something.”
Even with directions it had taken me an hour on horseback to find the place. It lay far out on the Mese, past the Church of the Holy Apostles, where the city begins to give way to countryside. It was one of a sprawl of old houses, hardly enough of them to call a village, once handsome but now fallen into disrepair. The tiled roofs were gap-toothed, the plastered walls peeling, and, after a day of steady rain, the alleys between the houses were narrow tracks, ankle-deep in mud where chickens pecked and naked children splashed in puddles.
I had knocked on several doors before finding the right one. Meanwhile, I rehearsed one improbable speech after another that I would make to Selene if she were at home. I’d happened to be in the neighborhood when I started feeling sick. Or, I longed to make the acquaintance of her illustrious father. Or, I was thinking of buying a house in the area and wanted to meet my neighbors. Anything but the truth—that I longed to see her, that I couldn’t understand why she had run away from me, that I was ashamed to waylay her in the taverna again and didn’t know what else to do.
“Come in, sir.” His voice rumbled deep in his chest. He led me into a large, dark room, sparsely furnished but clean. Was she there? I took in the room with a swift glance. But the only other occupant I could see was a little monkey in a yellow silk jacket that sat atop a wooden chest of drawers, nibbling a lettuce leaf. It looked up and blinked at me. Now what should I do? A medley of smells assaulted my nostrils: some of them cooking oil and cabbage, others acrid, metallic, unnamable. The windows were shut and barred, the room was hot. I thought of Zoe’s perfumery and kept myself from wrinkling my nose in disgust.
The old man eyed me warily. “I don’t get many visitors from outside the neighborhood. Who sent you to me?” I named Psellus’s uncle and he nodded. “And how may I help you, sir?”
“I’m, er, suffering from dizziness, doctor.” I improvised. “From headache, vomiting.”
“Ah. It could be mati—the evil eye. Have you recently crossed paths with someone who envies you?”
“Doctor, I think I can honestly say that there is no one in the world who envies me.”
“Then you’re a lucky man.”
“Or a most unlucky one.”
He offered a quick smile at this. “I will examine you. Please remove your tunic and shirt and lie down over there.” He indicated a cot with a threadbare coverlet on it. When I had arranged myself, he studied me for a moment, placed his index finger in my navel, and frowned.
His hands were large, with big knuckles and knotted blue veins, and they shook with a tremor he seemingly couldn’t control. “As I thought,” he said, “no pulse. Your navel is wandering.”
“My navel? But it’s right here.”
“The invisible navel, sir. When it wanders, the body is loosened. This is a very dangerous condition. Have you drunk cold water while you were sweating? Did you eat cucumbers while you were overheated? Have you lifted anything heavy?”
What a fool’s errand I’d come on! Selene wasn’t here, and how long could I keep this up? I should leave before I thoroughly embarrassed myself.
“There are various treatments,” he continued, “let us begin with this.” He produced a vial of some clear liquid that smelled strongly of onions, sprinkled drops of it on my stomach, and began to mutter a spell.
“Doctor, perhaps, after all—” I tried to sit up.
“Hold still,” he commanded.
And then the door opened and in she walked, with her game box under her arm. She tossed her wet cloak in a corner. She was dressed as I had seen her before, in loose-fitting tunic and trousers that showed nothing of her figure. “Father, I—oh, I’m sorry.” She glanced at me as I struggled into my shirt—then looked again. “Churillo? What are you doing here? Is that your horse?”
“Selene, what a surprise!”
“Get out.”
Get out? Nothing more than that? I’d never flattered myself I was good-looking but what could she have against me?
Melampus looked from one of us to the other. “You know each other?”
“We’ve met,” she said. “At a taverna.”
He looked at me sternly. “Your aren’t sick, are you, sir? It’s my daughter you came to see, not me. You wouldn’t be the first young man to do so. But you have imposed on me sir. You have come here under false pretenses. I will ask you to leave now.”
What a disaster! What came out of my mouth then was none of the things I had planned to say. “I wanted to meet you, Melampus,” I blurted in a rush of words. “My father was a magician and a believer in the old gods, like yourself.” It was what Psellus had told me about him.
There was a very long silence during which the old man leaned close over me. “And why do you tell me this? Who are you?”
“My name is Odd Thorvaldsson,” I replied, “called Tangle-Hair, a visitor to your city from Ultima Thule.”
“Liar!” Selene cried. You gave me a different name. You’re a police spy. Get out. We’re good Christians here, we’ve done nothing wrong. Please. My father is an old man, harmless—” She ran to him and put her arms around him, to shield him from me.
But he put up his hand to silence her. “Thule? I’ve heard of that distant land. Fascinating. I never overlook an opportunity to learn some new thing. I believe you mean us no harm.”
“Father—”
“It’s all right, my dear. It’s time for our evening meal, sir. Will you join us?”
In the kitchen that adjoined the sitting room, a shapeless old woman in a black dress and headscarf stirred a pot on the hearth. We sat on stools around a table that had one leg shorter than the others. The only light came from a couple of tallow candles in wooden candlesticks that smoked and guttered in the draft. The monkey, whose name was Ramesses, followed us in and hopped up beside Selene, like one of the family. She fed it from her hand. Melampus smiled apologetically. “I know that you Northerners are great meat eaters, but I’m afraid we have none to offer.”
We dipped our spoons into a mess of gruel and boiled vegetables and washed it down with watered vinegar, the beverage of the poor. “Delicious,” I lied.
“But the Guardian of the House,” he said, “feeds on better stuff.” I followed the doctor’s gaze to the floor, where, to my astonishment, an enormous snake glided out from under the table and darted its tongue into a saucer of milk. Meanwhile, Selene ate steadily, without looking up or speaking. Melampus returned his attention from the snake to me. “And what about you, sir? Do you still worship the gods of your father?”
“It’s a debt I owe my dead ones,” I answered, casting my eyes down. “It gets harder the farther I travel. Odin seems very far away.”
“Odin!” he cried. “Then I know your god, I know him well. He has many names. The Egyptians call him Thoth, the Latins call him Mercury. But his true name is Hermes the Thrice-Great, the son of Zeus, the greatest benefactor of mankind—poet, trickster, the sender of dreams, the guide of souls, the inventor of writing, the Supreme Magician. The middle day of the week bears his name, and the planet that lies nearest the Sun. He is the father of alchemy. Quicksilver is
his metal, that precious stuff without which—”
Selene’s face was suddenly alive; she shot her father a frightened look and then me. “My father is a trusting man, too trusting.”
“Eh, daughter?” He touched his napkin to his mouth. “Well, perhaps I do go on too much. But I would like to meet this young man’s father. What we might teach each other!”
“That cannot be,” I said. “The Christmen killed him.”
He bent his brows and looked solemn. “That is a tragedy, indeed. But you mustn’t hate them for it, you know. Christ too was a magician, a very great one. There is room for all.”
“They don’t think so.”
“But we know better, don’t we? We few.” He gazed away into the distance. “I was born in Alexandria in Egypt, once the glory of the Greek world, now a city of the Saracens. My father was a physician and I followed in his footsteps. But medicine did not altogether satisfy me. I longed for a deeper knowledge of the cosmos. The Saracens are not the barbarians that the Christians say they are. They prize Greek learning and have preserved it, even books that run contrary to their own teachings. I sought out these books of alchemy and divination and especially books that exposed the errors of the Christians and exalted Thrice-Great Hermes, Zosimus, Porphyry, Julian, and others. I found not only the books but a handful of men and women in out-of-the-way places who still read and understood them, and these became my teachers. My father grew frightened, he urged me to give up these pursuits, but I would not, and eventually I left home. After that, I lived in many places—Antioch, Athens, Thessaloniki—and everywhere I went I gathered knowledge of the secret truths. At last I came to this city and here I have lived for thirty years, devoting myself to the Great Work, to forging ‘the stone of the Ancients’, the transformative catalyst that turns base metal into gold.”
The Varangian Page 11
