Byzantium by Michael Ennis Read Free Book Online

in the ale.
    ‘Jarl . . .’ Haraldr held up his sloshing wine bag in mute apology.
    ‘I know. I talked with Yaroslav. But you’re sailing with me! Tomorrow we’ll be on the Dnieper! You leave nothing here, my boy, nothing. But think what you might return to!’
    Haraldr tried to focus. ‘Jarl, do you think that Yaroslav will really consider my suit--’
    ‘Haraldr, my boy! In the morning we put out for Miklagardr. Miklagardr! To seek the widest fame and goldest glory a man can seek. The Grik Emperor can bestow a princess’s dower as easily as a Norse king might give his man an arm ring. Your dreams await you there!’
    Yes, my dreams, thought Haraldr, for a chilling instant sobered.
    Jarl Rognvald observed the shadow on his ward’s face and grinned foolishly while the demons of his own mind soughed and shrieked. Tomorrow morning he would lead almost five hundred ships and twenty thousand men down the Dnieper. If Odin were extraordinarily lavish with his favours, a third of those ships and men might return to Kiev. Jarl Rognvald had accepted Yaroslav’s onerous charge through the same rigid sense of duty that had driven him throughout his life; he was the best man, Norse or Slav, to command the flotilla, and as far as he was concerned, that alone obligated him to lead, however ill advised the Great Prince’s venture might be. But that was before Norway’s fate had been cast upon the murderous Dnieper.
    ‘Haraldr. We all fear the river.’ The Jarl wrapped a big rough hand around Haraldr’s neck. ‘Why do you think that every man of us has tonight summoned the heron of forgetful-ness?’ He grabbed Haraldr’s arm. ‘Let’s walk. I must find the Grik trade ambassador. And the entire world is here to see!’
    The flat, sandy plain just north of the bluff-walled Citadel of Kiev was strewn with acres of cargo lit by moving torches: corded stacks of furs; endless buckets of beeswax and honey; and groups of predominantly dark-hued, resigned slaves, enough for an army, roped together at the feet. Farmers dragged their sledges full of cabbages, turnips and onions. Barrels of ale and salted meat were rolled along the maze of timber paths to the Dnieper. Screeching from their canvas booths, merchants did a lucrative last-minute business in tools, armour, and burlap for tents and awnings. Strange foreign tongues clashed like flocks of exotic birds. Yaroslav’s military band filled the air with the whirling, tinny melodies of pipes, tambourines and horns. The fat-bodied river ships lined the ghostly grey sand-shore like an enormous herd of beached leviathans.
    The Jarl pointed out two silk-sheathed figures. He straightened his own tunic and fastened the top two buttons of Haraldr’s jacket. His voice returned to its usual gravity. ‘Haraldr, the Grik trade ambassador will have an interpreter with him, a Grik likewise, but this man speaks our tongue as well as you or I. Like many Grik court-men, this interpreter has been gelded so that he may serve the Emperor without aspiring to his throne. He will have a face as smooth as a woman’s. Please do not stare at him. He still has his dignity.’
    The Byzantine trade ambassador wore an ankle-length tunic of red silk; dark, tightly-ringed hair and a curling beard framed his high, feminine cheek-bones. He seemed to peer through the Norseman as if he were looking through a pane of glass. The little hairless man beside the ambassador, robed in plainer silk, smiled broadly. The ambassador still evidenced no awareness of the two Norsemen. After an awkward moment the eunuch spoke in a high, humming voice. ‘Greetings, Jarl Rognvald.’ Haraldr was astonished at the flawless pronunciation and undetectable accent. The eunuch cleared his throat for ironic emphasis and his eyes sparkled conspiratorially. ‘We both greet you. At least I am certain that the august ambassador would greet you if he were not so busily engaged in ignoring you.’
    ‘Gregory,’ offered Jarl Rognvald, ‘I