Byzantium

  She regarded me with the harsh, unyielding eyes of a judge, and must have decided I was telling her the truth. “Come with me,” she said, stepping further into the shadowed row of columns. I followed, growing more excited with every step. We passed three or four other prostitutes—none as fair as the one who led me, however—and continued on until we came to a place well out of sight of the street. I thought she was going to have pity on me, but in this I was disappointed.

  The young woman halted and turned towards me. “There,” she said, pointing into a dark-shadowed recess, “Delilah will have you.”

  Peering into the shadows, I saw a human form huddled against the stone. “Delilah,” called the young prostitute, “I have brought you a fine young man.” She turned and started away, laughing. “Farewell, ten denarii!”

  The figure in the shadows rose and lurched forward. A face emerged from the darkness. Little more than a mass of ratty hair and wrinkles, the ageing prostitute looked at me with sly approval. “Ten denarii,” she said, and opened her mouth to show me that she had no teeth. Delilah then gave me a toothless smile and said, “Like a baby,” she cooed. “Only ten denarii.”

  She hobbled closer. I became aware of a rank, sickly smell. Disgust, more than the stench, drove me back. The ageing whore followed, clutching at my clothes. “Do whatever you want,” she screeched. “Only ten denarii.”

  Sickened at the thought of coupling with such a creature, I edged backwards, desperate now to get away. She shambled after me, grasping at my clothes. Turning from her, I fled, running back along the columns and the waiting women. They laughed, and called scorn upon me as I ran past, looking neither right nor left.

  My face burning with shame, I stumbled into the street once more. I could hear the mocking laughter of the prostitutes ringing in my ears long after they were out of sight, though this was no doubt all my imagining. Hoping for nothing more than to lose myself in the market crowd, I walked aimlessly for a time, until my composure returned.

  Sure, I felt humiliated, and deeply disgusted with myself for even thinking to behave in such a shameful manner. Abhorrence claimed me, and I abandoned myself to a wallow of loathing, berating myself for my ignorance and stupidity, as well as for the folly of my disgraceful actions.

  Curiously, however, this feeling did not last. It was not long before I began to think that, as the thing stood, nothing had happened and no one had been hurt. As for myself, I had suffered nothing worse than embarrassment. Thinking this, some small part of my self-respect revived. What is more, I still had my silver coin.

  Thus, much chagrined, I resumed my inspection of the market stalls. Alas, it was hopeless. Try as I might, I could not think of anything I would enjoy doing with the money. At last, I chanced upon the thought of procuring a meal at a taberna—like the one Justin had bought for me. But to enjoy it, I would need a friend to share the feast, and I had none. I thought of buying wine and taking it to the quay to drink with Gunnar and Thorkel and Tolar. If Gunnar were here, I thought, he would know what to do.

  For a moment, I considered going to find Gunnar, but the more I thought about it, the more offensive the idea became. Had I become so devoid of creative volition that I required a master’s aid and approval for even so small a thing as spending a coin? Had I embraced slavery so completely that I could no longer decide for myself?

  Chastised by these thoughts, I determined to purchase a meal, as that had been the last thing I had truly enjoyed for its own sake alone. The forum was not the best place for this, so I went in search of the taberna I had seen when first entering Trebizond. I found the central street and began walking along it in the direction of the harbour. The narrow way was crowded as midday approached, and the street merchants were at their busiest. It was all I could do to find the place, and when I at last pushed my way to the door, I found it closed and locked. No one answered my knock, but when I persisted, a boy put his head out of a windhole above the street and told me to come back in the evening and the master would be happy to serve me.

  Discouraged, I moved off down the street where I found a man selling bread, and another selling roast birds, chops of pork, and such like. I bought two fine loaves and a roast fowl, and continued on until I came to a woman selling wine. I bought a jar of sweet red Anatolian wine and, with the last of the money purchased some olives. As I was then very close to the harbour, I continued on towards the seafront, where I thought I might find a place to sit down and eat in peace.

  Indeed, I reached the harbour and settled down on a large coil of rope and a heap of fishing nets at the water’s edge. Carefully placing the wine jar on the quay so that I would not spill it, I untied the roast fowl and began to eat. It seemed odd to me, sitting there alone, but as I ate and watched the ships come and go in the harbour, I began to take pleasure in my simple meal. The food was good, the day was fine; I could look across the harbour to where the Danish longships were docked, and almost make out individuals among the figures moving around on the wharf.

  Very soon, the sun and wine, and a stomach full of bread and roast chicken, united to make me sleepy. My eyelids grew so heavy I could not keep them open, so I lay back in my nest of rope and netting to sleep.

  It was late when I awoke; the sun was well down, flaming the western sea and tinting the sky deep yellow. I rose with an aching head and made my way back through shadowed streets to the governor’s house, and slipped in quietly, hoping no one had cause to remark upon my absence. Aside from a fleeting twinge of guilt over my small transgression, I reflected that I had enjoyed myself after all.

  But then I wondered what Amet had seen that inspired him to exhort me to a day of pleasure. Was it really the last day of peace and happiness I would know?

  42

  Negotiations between the eparch and the amir concluded when all parties agreed to honour the safety of travellers, especially merchants and the like who habitually traversed disputed borders. The routes themselves might remain under contention, but all recognized that it was best for everyone if trade continued unhindered. What is more, both emperor and caliph vowed—through their emissaries—to take whatever steps necessary to halt the pirating and raiding on both sides.

  Furthermore, they agreed that these simple measures, if strictly upheld, could lay a solid foundation for increased cooperation, perhaps even reconciliation in the future. Towards this end, they proposed to meet again the following year to plan a council at which the emperor and the caliph could meet face to face and exchange tokens and treaties of peace.

  Spring, early in this part of the world, was soon upon us and that meant the beginning of the trading year. Hence, Nicephorus was eager to return to the emperor with word of the envoy’s success, for the sooner word of the peace accord could reach Constantinople, the sooner the merchants could resume trading with full confidence—and the sooner imperial coffers would begin enjoying fresh infusions of tax money, foreign and domestic.

  “If you will pardon me, eparch,” said Nikos the day after Amir Sadiq had departed. There had been a great farewell feast to celebrate the successful conclusion of the council, and the amir had been sent off with gifts of assurance and good will—the treasure the Sea Wolves had guarded, in fact. The eparch was preparing to sail the next day.

  “Yes, yes, what is it, komes?” replied Nicephorus impatiently. He was sitting at the small table in the courtyard, looking at various documents having to do with the business just concluded.

  “I see you are busy. Therefore, I will speak plainly.”

  “By all means.”

  “I think it a mistake to return to Constantinople at once.” Nikos was so intent on making his point that he failed to notice me standing just inside the door. I had brought the eparch his cloak; the day had turned cloudy, and he asked me to fetch it for him.

  “And why is that?” wondered the eparch, laying aside the parchment he was reading.

  “We have had pledges and assurances before, but it has not stopped the predation.”
br />   “Are you suggesting the amir has lied to us, or deceived us in some way?”

  “Not in the least,” answered the komes quickly. “I am as certain as you are that Amir Sadiq is a just and honourable man.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?” The eparch glared at Nikos. “Come now! Be quick about it. You proposed to speak plainly—do so!”

  “I am simply suggesting,” Nikos said with elaborate patience, “that the news of our achievement may not receive the welcome it rightly deserves.”

  “And why should you imagine that?” snapped the eparch, already dismissing the komes from his mind, if not from the room. He turned back to the parchment he had been perusing.

  “For the simple reason that no one will believe it.”

  The eparch glanced up from his work, regarded Nikos, then said, “Ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” countered the komes quickly. “Who will be the first to test the soundness of the treaty? If I were a merchant, I do not think I would be overeager to risk life and livelihood on the naked assurance of…” He hesitated.

  “Say it, komes,” demanded the eparch. “On the naked assurance of a silly old man. That is what you were going to say, is it not?”

  “To risk life and livelihood on the assurances of an unknown Arab emissary,” corrected Nikos smoothly. “It seems to me that without additional surety, shall we say, the agreement we take back with us will be seen as yet another empty promise offered by the duplicitous Muhammedans—a promise ordained to be broken as soon as the first trade vessels leave the Bosphorus.”

  This arrested the eparch’s attention. He raised his head slowly and turned to the komes. “Yes, I am listening. What do you propose?”

  “A simple demonstration,” answered Nikos.

  “A demonstration,” the eparch intoned flatly. “What sort of demonstration do you have in mind, komes?”

  “A journey, nothing more.”

  The eparch’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I am disappointed, komes. I expected something much more creative and intelligent from you.” Flicking his hand dismissively, Nicephorus said, “It is out of the question. You are too late with your anxious worries. We are leaving as soon as the ships are provisioned and ready. The merchants are anxious to return to Constantinople, and so am I. The emperor is waiting.”

  “It need be nothing very elaborate, or very far,” continued Nikos as if he had not heard the eparch’s decision. “What better way to announce the success of the treaty than to declare before the emperor and the assembled merchant princes that you personally have inaugurated the new peace with a journey over one of our more troubled trade routes, and found it to be completely satisfactory?”

  The eparch regarded Nikos closely; I had seen the same look on the face of a man trying to determine the age of the horse he was buying. “You have a destination in mind, I presume?”

  “The short journey to Theodosiopolis should suffice. It would take only a few days, and amply serve the purpose.”

  The eparch considered this, tapping his fingertips together. Finally, he said, “It is a meritable idea, Komes Nikos. I think you should do it—”

  “Good,” replied Nikos swiftly. “I will make the arrangements at once.”

  “On your own,” continued the eparch, more forcefully. “That would allow me to stay here and prepare for next year’s council. The governor is expected in a few days, and I could greet him and relate the details of our agreement. It would be time well spent. You go.”

  “But I am not the eparch,” Nikos pointed out. “I could not—”

  “It makes no difference. The journey is largely symbolic anyway. It will carry the same significance whether I go along or not.”

  Komes Nikos seemed about to make an objection; I could almost see the protest forming on his lips. But he checked himself and said, “Very well. If that is your decision.”

  “That is my decision,” replied Nicephorus precisely.

  “I shall leave in the morning. Good day to you, eparch.” He turned suddenly and, for the first time, saw me standing just inside the doorway. His face stiffened; he crossed the room in quick, long strides. “Beware, meddling priest,” he whispered under his breath as he passed. “Beware.”

  “Ah, Aidan, you are here,” called the eparch, beckoning me to enter. “The day has grown cold. I am chilled to the bone.”

  Unfolding the cloak, I placed it around his shoulders. “I could light the brazier,” I offered.

  “Too much bother,” he said. “I will not stay out here much longer. The light is failing.” He looked at the doorway, as if expecting to see Nikos standing there. “Did you hear what he said?”

  “Yes, eparch.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I know nothing of these matters,” I answered.

  “But you know Nikos,” the eparch pointed out. “You know him and, what is more, you distrust him—as do I.” Nicephorus paused, ordering his thoughts. “I distrust him because I do not know where his true loyalties lie. He is ambitious, I believe. Many young men are ambitious, and I have seen more than my share; but in our friend Nikos, ambition serves an end I cannot see.” Turning stiffly to me, he asked, “Was he lying, do you think?”

  “You would know better than I, eparch,” I answered. Suspicion, Justin had said, is the knife in your sleeve and the shield at your back.

  “I think we must assume that he was. But if so, I cannot see any possible gain in it—for him or anyone else. Can you?”

  “No, eparch.” Even as I answered I felt the creeping damp of the prison cell I had seen in my dream. I shivered and looked around me; the courtyard had grown dim as daylight waned. “It is getting dark. Shall I not light the brazier for you?”

  “No, no, that will not be necessary,” said the eparch, rising. “I am going to my room.” He folded the parchment and tucked it under his arm as he started for the door. “Walk with me, Aidan.”

  I fell into step beside him and we entered the corridor. “I do not know how you came to be slave to the Danes,” he said, “but I want you to know that I intend speaking to the emperor on our return.”

  “Eparch?”

  “About your freedom, son,” he said in a fatherly tone. “It would be a sad waste of your talents to spend the rest of your life translating Greek for barbarians. We must do something about that, I think.”

  “Thank you, eparch,” I replied, for I could think of nothing else to say.

  “We had best keep this between ourselves for now,” he cautioned. “It would be less awkward when the time comes.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell Flautus that I will take my meal in my room,” the eparch instructed. “I have had enough of celebration feasts for awhile.” We had reached his door; he opened it and dismissed me. “Oh, Aidan,” he said calling me back, “would you ask Jarl Harald to place a guard at my door tonight? I think I would sleep a little better for it.”

  “Yes, eparch; at once.”

  He thanked me and I took my leave, going straight-away to find Harald and arrange for the guard. Taking the eparch’s concern to heart, I also remained out of sight that night, behaving as a dutiful slave and staying close to Harald. But nothing happened, and the house remained quiet. I went to sleep thinking: Nikos departs tomorrow and we will not have to worry about him any more.

  The next day, Nikos prepared to leave, leading a group of thirty barbarian guards and a dozen opportunistic traders desirous of an escorted journey to Theodosiopolis. He spoke briefly to the eparch and left the villa, where-upon Nicephorus went in to break fast in his customary fashion. I served him at table whenever I could so that I might remain privy to his affairs.

  Thus, the eparch was just sitting down when Nikos returned. “A matter of urgency has arisen,” he said, striding quickly into the courtyard. “It requires your attention.”

  The eparch’s expression of anger gave way to bewil-derment when the magister and another man appeared in the doorway behind Nikos. The epa
rch rose to his feet and bade the men to enter.

  “Forgive my intrusion, eparch,” the magister said quickly. “I am glad to have arrived before it was too late.”

  “Too late?” wondered Nicephorus.

  “Ah,” said the magister, glancing at Nikos, “too late to prevent the komes from leaving.”

  The eparch frowned. “Why should that cause you concern, I wonder?”

  “I will explain,” offered the magister.

  “It would be a kindness,” allowed the eparch.

  “Consul Psellon,” he indicated the man beside him, “has just come from the governor with a message for you.”

  “I see. May I have it, please?” Nicephorus held out his hand.

  Magister Sergius nudged the man, who put his hand into a fold of his cloak, and withdrew a thick square of parchment tied with a black silk band and sealed with a red spot of wax. “It is the exarch’s seal, you see,” volunteered Sergius.

  “Thank you for that observation, magister,” intoned the eparch. “No doubt I would have failed to appreciate that detail. I am, as always, indebted to you.”

  Sergius coloured and made to further his explanation, but Nikos cut him off, saying, “Thank you, magister. I think we are fully capable of assessing the importance of this document without your assistance.”

  “Of course.” The magister subsided gratefully.

  Eyeing the magister and consul in turn, the eparch took up the bundle, untied it, broke the seal, unfolded the heavy parchment and began to read, his lips moving over the words as he scanned the document. “This is most interesting,” he observed upon finishing. “Most interesting, indeed.”

  Without waiting to be asked, Nikos snatched up the parchment and began to read. “It is from the governor,” he observed, still reading.

  “So it would appear,” mused Nicephorus, staring at the magister and consul with an expression of rank scepticism.

  “He is asking us to join him in Sebastea,” Nikos continued. “He says there is word of—” he broke off abruptly, glancing at the eparch. “It is a matter of extreme urgency,” he finished lamely.