Sworn Brother (54 page)

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.

M
uch
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 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.