by Tim Severin
I wriggled like a salmon trying to avoid the barbs of a fishing spear. Froygeir was a big, agile man, well used to fighting at close quarters with a knife. Normally he would have finished me off with ease. Perhaps he was feeling the effects of his night’s debauch or maybe he wanted to haul me out of the water, turn me so I could see my killer and then cut my throat. So, instead of stabbing again, he made the mistake of trying to pull me close by heaving on my loincloth. Its knot came undone and I squirmed free.
As Froygeir stumbled backwards, I seized my chance to swim clear. The pain in my wounded left shoulder was so excruciating that I forgot the cut to my ribs. Terror drove me as I found the strength to move my arms and legs and swim a dozen frenzied strokes. I had no idea in which direction I was going. All I knew was that I had to get away from Froygeir. I thrashed forward blindly, expecting at any moment to feel his hand grasp my ankle and pull me back.
My nakedness saved me. I can think of no other explanation. Froygeir was a river man. He knew how to swim and should have overhauled his wounded prey with no difficulty, but he was wearing Varangian trousers with their many folds of material and, waterlogged, they hampered him. I heard him surge after me, wading at first, then forced to swim in my wake. As my initial panic receded, I took a quick look to see where I was heading – directly away from shore, out into the broad river. I forced myself to breathe deeply and move through the muddy water in some sort of rhythm. Only when I had swum at least two hundred strokes did I risk glancing back. Froygeir had abandoned the chase. I could see the back of his head as he returned towards the shore. There, I knew, he would be waiting for me if I was so foolish as to return to the camp.
Utterly exhausted, I stopped swimming and trod water. A red stain was spreading from my shoulder all around me. I had heard of giant fish in the river – it was said they were longer than a man – and wondered if they fed on flesh and would be attracted by blood. I prayed to Odinn for help.
Slimy and ancient, the log was floating so low in the water that I did not see my salvation until it nuzzled against me and I flinched, thinking of those meat-eating fish. Then I wrapped my arms gratefully around the slippery wood and let the timber take my weight. Another circle of my life was closing, I thought to myself. Driftwood had caused the death of my sworn brother and now another floating log would prolong my life if only I could hang on. Bleeding to death would be better than drowning. I clenched my teeth against the pain from my shoulder, squeezed my eyes tight shut, and deliberately sought the relief of darkness.
I KNEW NOTHING MORE until a sour smell roused me. Fumes stung my nose and brought tears in my eyes. A trickle of liquid, sharp and astringent, ran into my throat and made me cough. Someone was bathing my face with a sponge. I opened my eyes. I must have fainted while clinging to the log – I had no idea how I came to be lying on my back on a carpet and looking up into the chubby face of ibn Hauk. For once, his expression was sombre. He said something in his own language and I heard the voice of his interpreter.
‘Why were you floating in the river?’
I licked my lips and tasted vinegar.
‘They tried to kill me.’
The Serklander did not even bother to ask who had made the attempt. He knew.
‘Then it was lucky that one of my Black Hoods spotted you.’
‘You must get away,’ I said urgently. ‘The man who sold you the slaves, Ivarr, is dead. His comrades think you poisoned him. Now the Varangians are leaderless they are very dangerous and will try to catch up with you to get back the twin girls.’
‘No more than I would expect of those savages,’ he answered. ‘We are already on our way downriver.’
I tried to sit up.
‘My master asks you to lie still,’ said the interpreter. ‘You will disturb the dressing.’
I turned my head and saw that my left shoulder was bandaged. Again I smelled vinegar and wondered why.
Ibn Hauk answered before I had time to enquire.
‘The vinegar is against the pestilence,’ he said. ‘It is to cleanse you from the sickness that killed Ivarr. Rest now. We will not be stopping, but will travel through the darkness. I do not think that your Rus will catch up with us. And if they do the Black Hoods will deal with them.’
I relaxed and thought about this turn of events. Everything I owned – my precious furs, my clothes, even the knife that Thrand had given me and which I treasured – was lost irretrievably. They were in the hands of the Varangians, who would already have divided the spoils amongst themselves. I was glad that I had given away the fire ruby to Allba. I was destitute and now I did not even have clothes to wear. Under the loose cotton sheet which covered me I was naked.
Ibn Hauk personally attended to me as we sailed downriver. He carried a stock of healing drugs from his own country and prepared the poultices of herbs and spices which were applied to my knife wounds. Certainly he was very skilled in their use, for eventually the wounds closed up so cleanly that they left barely the faintest scars. Each time he came to change the dressings he took the chance to question me about the customs of the Varangians and the countries where I had travelled. He had never heard of Iceland or Greenland, and of course he knew nothing of Vinland. But he had heard of King Knut of England and had some vague information about the northern lands.
When I told him how Ivarr’s corpse had been burned, he was shocked. ‘That is utter barbarism,’ he said. ‘No wonder the pestilence spreads among those river pirates. My religion demands that we wash before our prayers, but I observed that your former travelling companions are more filthy in their habits than donkeys.’
‘Not all are so uncouth,’ I said. ‘There are men who know the use of herbs and simples just as you do, and the true Varangians, the men who come from the northern lands, are strict about their personal cleanliness. They bathe regularly, keep their hair and fingernails clean and take a pride in their appearance. I know because I have had to wield the heavy stones they use to press their clothes.’
‘But burning a corpse to ashes,’ ibn Hauk observed, ‘that is abominable.’
‘In your country what do they do?’ I asked.
‘We bury our dead,’ he answered. ‘Often the grave must be shallow because the soil is rocky, but we put the dead into the ground as quickly as possible before putrefaction sets in. Our climate is very hot.’
‘That is what the Christians also do – bury the dead,’ I said, and found myself repeating what Thrand had said long ago. ‘You see, for those who follow the Old Ways that is an insult to the deceased. We – for I am an Old Believer – find it repugnant to let a man’s corpse decompose or be eaten by worms. We prefer that it is destroyed neatly and cleanly, so that the soul rises to Valholl.’
Then, of course I had to explain what I meant by Valholl, while ibn Hauk busily made notes. ‘Your Valholl sounds very much like the valley that some of our believers, a strange sect, think they will achieve if they die in battle sacrificing their lives for their leader.’
He was so amiable and outgoing that I took the chance to ask him if he had ever seen precious stones that were the colour of pigeon’s blood and had a burning fire within them.
He recognised the description instantly.
‘Of course. We call them laal. My master owns several – they are among the pride of his royal jewels. The best ones he received as gifts from other great potentates.’
‘Do you know where they come from?’
‘That’s not an easy question to answer. The gem dealers refer to these jewels as badakshi, and this may have something to do with the name of the country where they are found,’ he said. ‘It is said that the mines lie in high mountains, close to the borders of the country we call al-Hind. Their precise location is kept a secret, but there are rumours. It is reported that the rubies are found encased in lumps of white rock, which are broken open with great care by the miners, using chisels, to reveal the jewel within. If they find a small jewel of poor quality, they call it a foot soldier. A bett
er jewel is known as a horse soldier, and so on up through an amir jewel, a vizier jewel, until the very best – the emperor jewel – which is reserved for royalty.’
In such intelligent and informative company the journey south passed rapidly, and it was with genuine regret that I heard ibn Hauk announce one afternoon that our paths were about to separate.
‘Tomorrow we reach the outer frontiers of Rumiyah,’ he said. ‘I expect we will meet with a border patrol. The great river curves away to the east and the way to Rumiyah, where you want to go, is south and west. You have to cross from this river to another, which takes you to a port from where you take ship and finally, after a passage of two or three weeks, you will arrive at its capital, Constantinople, or Miklagard as you call it.’
I must have looked dejected because he added, ‘Don’t worry. One traveller should always help another and my religion tells me that acts of charity will be rewarded. I promise that I will see to it that you reach your Miklagard.’
Only when the commander of the frontier guard came to interview ibn Hauk did I fully appreciate how influential was my modest travelling companion. The commander was a Pecheneg mercenary, hired with his troop of tribal cavalry to patrol the buffer zone between the empire and the wilder region to the north. The Pecheneg was either arrogant or looking for a bribe. He spoke to ibn Hauk rudely, demanding proof of his claim that he was an ambassador. Quietly ibn Hauk produced a small metal tablet. It was about the length of my hand and three fingers broad. There were lines of Greek script engraved on it, though I doubted that the Pecheneg could read them. However, the soldier had no need of literacy. The tablet was solid gold. He blenched when he saw it and became very obsequious. Was there anything the ambassador wanted? He asked. He would be happy to oblige.
‘Allow myself and my retinue to continue downriver,’ answered the Arab gently, ‘and provide an escort, if you would be so kind, for this young man. He is carrying a message to his majesty the emperor.’
I had the presence of mind not to gape with astonishment. The moment the Pecheneg had left the tent, I asked, ‘Your excellency, what was meant about a message for Constantinople?’
‘Oh, that.’ Ibn Hauk waved his hand dismissively. ‘It will do no harm if I send the compliments of the caliph to the emperor of Rumiyah. Indeed it would be much appreciated. The imperial court positively relishes the niceties of diplomacy, and the protocol department might take it as an insult if they heard that I had visited a corner of imperial territory without sending a few flattering words to the great emperor of the Romans, for that is how he styles himself. You can carry the note for me. In fact you can help write it out in Greek letters.’
‘But I don’t understand why the Pecheneg should go to the trouble of arranging my journey.’
‘He has little choice,’ said ibn Hauk. ‘The imperial office only issues gold passport tablets to the representatives of the most important fellow rulers. Each tablet carries the authority of the emperor himself. If the Pecheneg failed in his duty, he would be lucky to hold onto his job, if not thrown into gaol. The bureaucrats of Constantinople are corrupt and conceited, but they hate disobedience. To smooth your passage, I will give you enough silver to sweeten them on arrival. Here, let us compose the message you will carry.’
So it was that I had my first and only lesson in transcribing from Serkland script to Greek. I found the task not that difficult because many of the letters had their close equivalents, and with the help of the interpreter I made what I think was a reasonable translation of ibn Hauk’s flowery congratulations and compliments to the basileus, as the Byzantines call their emperor.
‘I doubt he will ever see the letter, anyhow,’ commented ibn Hauk. ‘It will probably get filed away somewhere in the palace archives, and be forgotten. A pity as I’m rather proud of my calligraphy.’
He had taken great care with his penmanship, delicately inking in the lines of script on a fresh, smooth parchment. He reminded me of the monks whom I had seen at work in the scriptorium of the monastery where I had served a brief novitiate. His handwriting was a work of art. I said as much and he looked even more cheerful than usual.
‘You will have noted,’ he said, ‘that I used a different script from the one I wrote when I was making my notes about your travels. That was my everyday working hand. This letter I have penned in our formal lettering, which is reserved for important documents and inscriptions, copies of our holy book and anything which bears my master’s name. Which reminds me: you will need money to cover your travelling expenses on the way to Constantinople.’
Which is how I came to travel the final stage of my journey to Miklagard dressed in a cotton Arab gown and carrying coins which I had first seen around the neck of the queen of England, and which I now knew were struck in the name of the great caliph of Baghdad.
EIGHTEEN
MUCH HAS BEEN written of the splendours of Constantinople, the city we northerners know as Miklagard and others call Metropolis, the queen or – simply – the great city. Yet nowhere have I read of the phenomenon which intrigued me as I arrived at the mouth of the narrow strait on which Constantinople stands. The phenomenon is this: the sea water runs only one way through the strait. This is against nature. As every sailor knows, if a sea is tidal, there is a regular ebb and flow in such a constricted place. If there is no tide or very little, as at Constantinople, there should be no movement of the water at all. Yet the captain of the cargo vessel which had brought me to the strait, assured me that a sea always flows through in the same direction.
‘You can count on it running from north to south,’ he said, watching my expression of disbelief, ‘and sometimes the current is as swift as a powerful river.’ We were passing between the two rocky headlands which mark the northern entrance to the channel. ‘In ancient times,’ he continued, ‘it was said that those rocks could clash together, smashing to splinters any vessel that tried to slip through. That is mere fable, but it is certain that the current always goes one way.’
I watched our speed increase as we came into the current. On the beach a gang of men were man-hauling a vessel upstream, so to speak, with tow ropes tied to their bodies. They reminded me of our kholops dragging our light boats in the land of the Rus.
‘Now I will show you something still more remarkable,’ said the captain, pleased to teach an ignorant foreigner the wonders of his home port. ‘That vessel over there, the one that looks as if it is anchored in midstream.’ He pointed to a tubby little trading ship, which appeared to have dropped anchor far from shore, though quite why its crew were rowing when the ship was at anchor, was a mystery. ‘That ship is not anchored at all. You couldn’t reach the bottom with the longest line. The skipper is dangling a big basket of stones overboard. He’s done it to catch a current deep down. It flows the other way, from south to north, and is helping to drag his vessel in the way he wants.’
I was too astonished to comment, for the strait ahead of us was widening. Its banks, with their villas and country houses, were opening out to frame a spectacle which was nothing like anything I had imagined could be possible. Constantinople had come full into view.
The city was immense. I had seen Dublin from the Black Pool and I had sailed up the Thames to arrive in London’s port, but Constantinople far exceeded anything I had ever witnessed. There was no comparison. Constantinople’s population was said to number more than half a million citizens, ten times the size of the next largest city in the known world. Judging by the immense number of palaces, public buildings and houses covering the entire width of the peninsula ahead of me, this was no exaggeration. To my right a capacious harbour opened out, an entire gulf crowded with merchant shipping of every shape and description. Looming over the wharves were buildings which I identified as warehouses and arsenals and I could see the outlines of shipyards and dry docks. Beyond the waterfront rose an imposing city wall, whose ramparts encircled the city as far as the eye could see. Yet even this tall city wall was dwarfed by the structures behind
it. There was a skyline of lofty towers, columns, high roofs and domes, all built of marble and stone, brick and tile, not of wood, plaster and thatch like the cities with which I was familiar. But it was not the magnitude of the place that silenced me, nor its air of solid permanence, for I had carried a wondrous vision of the city in my head ever since Bolli Bollason had sung the praises of Miklagard, and I had promised Grettir to travel in his memory. The reason for my stunned amazement came from something else: the panorama of the city was dominated by a vast assembly of churches and oratories and monasteries, most of them built to a design that I had never seen before – clusters of domes surmounted by the cross-shaped symbol of the White Christ. Many of the domes were covered with gold leaf and glittered in the sunshine. I had totally failed to realise that my destination was the greatest stronghold of the White Christ faith on earth.
Despite all this magificence I had little time to gaze. The current rapidly brought our ship into the anchorage, which my captain proudly informed me was known throughout the civilised – and he emphasised the word civilised – world as the Golden Horn for its prosperity and wealth. ‘There’ll be a customs man waiting on the dock to check my cargo and charge me taxes. Ten per cent for those grasping rogues in the state treasury. I’ll ask him to arrange for a clerk to escort you to the imperial chancery, where you can hand over that letter you are carrying.’ Then he added meaningfully, ‘If you have to deal with the officials there, I wish you luck.’
