Sworn Brother v-2

by Tim Severin

  '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.

  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 st
unned 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 magnificence 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.'

  My monastery-learned Greek, I rapidly discovered, either made people smile or wince. The latter was the reaction of the palace functionary who accepted ibn Hauk's letter on behalf of the court protocol department. He made me wait for an hour in a bleak antechamber before I was ushered into his presence. As ibn Hauk had anticipated, I was greeted with supreme bureaucratic indifference.

  'This will be placed before the memoriales in due course,' the functionary said, using only his fingertips to touch ibn Hauk's exquisitely written letter, as if it was tainted.

  'Will the memoriales want to send a reply?' I asked politely.

  The civil servant curled his lip. 'The memoriales,' he said, 'are the secretaries of the imperial records department. They will study the document and decide if the letter should be placed on file or if it merits onward transmission to the charturalius —' he saw my puzzlement - 'the chief clerk. He in turn will decide whether it should be forwarded to the office of the dromos, the foreign minister, or to the basilikoi, who heads the office of special emissaries. In either case it will require the secretariat's approval and, of course, the consent of the minister himself, before the matter of a response is brought forward for consideration. ' His reply convinced me that my duty towards ibn Hauk had been amply discharged. His letter would be mired in the imperial bureaucracy for months.

  'Perhaps you could tell me where I might find the Varangians,' I ventured.

  The secretary raised a disdainful eyebrow at my antiquated Greek.

  'The Varangians,' I repeated. 'The imperial guardsmen.'

  There was a pause as he deliberated over my question, it was as if he was smelling a bad odour. 'Oh, you mean the emperor's wineskins,' he answered. 'That drunken lot of barbarians. I haven't the least idea. You'd better ask someone else.' It was quite plain that he knew the answer to my question, but was not prepared to help.

  I had better luck with a passer-by in the street. 'Follow this main avenue,' he said, 'past the porticos and arcades of shops until you come to the Milion — that's a pillar with a heavy iron chain round the base. There's a dome over it, held up on four columns, rather like an upside-down soup bowl. You can't miss it. It's where all the official measurements for distances in the empire start from. Go past the Milion and take the first right. In front of you you'll see a large building, looks like a prison, which is not surprising because that is what it used to be. That's now the barracks for the imperial guard. Ask for the Numera if you get lost.'

  I followed his directions. It seemed natural to seek out the Varangians. I knew no one in this immense city. In my purse I had a few silver coins left over from ibn Hauk's generosity, but they would soon be spent. The only northerners whom I knew for certain lived in Miklagard were the soldiers of the emperor's bodyguard. They came from Denmark, Norway, Sweden and some from England. Many, like Ivarr's father, had once served in Kiev before deciding to come on to Constantinople and apply to join the imperial bodyguard. It occurred to me that I might even ask if I could join. After all, I had served with the Jomsvikings.

  My scheme, had I known it, was as clumsy and whimsical as my knowledge of spoken Greek, but even in the city of churches Odinn still watched over me.

  As I reached the Numera, a man emerged from the doorway to the barracks and started to walk across the large square away from me. He was obviously a guardsman. His height and breadth of shoulder made that much clear. He was a head taller than the majority of the citizens around him. They were small and neat, dark haired and olive skinned, and dressed in the typical Greek costume, loose shirt and trousers for the men, long flowing gowns and veils for the women. By contrast, the guardsman was wearing a tunic of red, and I could see the hilt of a heavy sword hanging from his right shoulder. I noticed too that his long blond hair hung in three plaits down his neck. I was staring at the back of his head as he moved through the crowd, when I recognised something about him. It was the way he walked. He moved like a ship rolling and cresting over the swell of the sea. The faster-moving civilians had to step aside to get past him. They were like a river flowing around a rock. Then I remembered where I had seen that gait before. There was only one man that tall, who walked in that measured way - Grettir's half-brother, Thorstein Galleon.

  I broke into a run and chased after him. The coincidence seemed so far-fetched that I did not yet dare say a prayer of thanks to Odinn in case I was deluded. I was still wearing an

  Arab gown that ibn Hauk had given me and to the pedestrians I must have looked a strange sight indeed, a fair-haired barbarian in a flapping cotton robe pushing rudely through the crowd in pursuit of one of the imperial guard. 'Thorstein!' I shouted.

  He stopped, and turned. I saw his face and knew I would make a sacrifice to Odinn in gratitude.

  'Thorstein!' I repeated, coming closer. 'It's me Thorgils, Thorgils Leifsson. I haven't seen you since Grettir and I were at your farmhouse in Tonsberg, on our way to Iceland.'

  For a moment Thorstein looked puzzled. My Arab dress must have confused him, and my face was tanned by the sun. 'By Thor and his goats,' he rumbled, 'it is indeed Thorgils. What on earth are you doing here and how did you find your way to Miklagard?' He clapped me on the shoulder and I flinched. His hand had touched the wound left by Froygeir's knife.

  'I only arrived today,' I answered. 'It's a long story but I came here through Gardariki and along the rivers with the fur traders.'

  'But how is it that you are alone and inside the city itself?' Thorstein asked. 'River traders are not allowed inside the city walls unless they are accompanied by an official.'

  'I came as an ambassadorial courier,' I said. 'It's so good to see you.'

  'You too,' answered Thorstein heartily. 'I heard that you became Grettir's sworn brother after you got back to Iceland. Which makes a bond between us.' Abruptly he checked himself, as though his initial enthusiasm was misplaced. 'I was on my way to report for duty at the palace guardroom, but there's time for us to go and share a glass of wine in a tavern,' and, strangely, he took me by the arm, and almost pushed me away from the open square and into the shelter of one of the arcades. We turned into the first tavern we came to and he led me to the back of the room. Here he sat us down where we could not be observed from the street.

  'I'm sorry to seem so brusque, Thorgils,' he said, 'but no one else knows that Grettir was my half-brother and I want it to stay that way.'

  For a moment I was scandalised. I had never imagined that Thorstein would conceal his relationship to Grettir, even though his half-brother had earned such an unsavoury reputation as a brigand and outlaw. But I was misjudging Thorstein badly.

  'Thorgils, you remember the promise I made to Grettir at my farm in Norway. On the day that you and he were about to set sail for Iceland?'

  'You promised to avenge him if ever he was killed unjustly.'

  'That's why I'm here in Constantinople, because of Grettir,' Thorstein went on. His voice had a new intensity. 'I've come here in pursuit of the man who
killed him. It's taken a long time to track him down and now I'm very close. In fact I don't want him to know just how close. It's not that I think he will make a run for it, he's come too far for that. What I want is to pick the right moment. When I'm to take my revenge, it won't be a hole-in-the-corner deed. It will be out in the open, something to make men remember.'

  'That's exactly what Grettir would have said,' I replied. 'But tell me, how does Thorbjorn Ongul come to be here in Miklagard?'

  'So you know it was that one-eyed bastard who caused the deaths of Grettir and Illugi,' said Thorstein. 'That's common knowledge in Iceland but nowhere else. He was condemned to exile by the Althing for employing the help of a black witch to cause Grettir's death. Since then he's taken care to keep out of sight. He went to Norway, then came here to Miklagard, where there's little chance of running into any other Icelanders or being recognised. In fact the other members of the guard know nothing about his background. He applied to the service about a year ago, met the entry requirements, greased a few palms and has established himself as a reliable soldier. That's another reason why I have to strike at the right moment. The regiment won't like it.'

  He paused for a moment and then said quietly, 'Thorgils, your arrival has complicated matters for me. I cannot allow anything which might interfere with my promise or risk its outcome. I would prefer if you stayed out of Constantinople, at least until I have settled matters with Thorbjorn Ongul.'

  'There's another way, Thorstein,' I said. 'Both of us are honour bound to Grettir's memory, whether as half-brother or sworn brother. As witness to your oath to Grettir I have a duty to support you, should you ever need my help. I am utterly certain that it was Odinn who brought about this meeting between us and that he did it for a purpose. Until that purpose becomes clear, I ask you to reconsider. Try to think how I might remain in Constantinople and be close at hand. For instance, why don't I join the guard as a recruit? Anonymously of course.'