Ten days after the sea battle, one of the Danes scrambled up the mast and hailed us to the sight of Miklagard, the Great Golden City. The call brought Lord Sadiq from his bed and, with Kazimain and Ddewi in attendance, he came to see the gleaming domes and towers of Constantinople.
Since the battle he had appeared often, if briefly, to walk the length of the ship a few times and take the air. On these occasions, he spoke to me-and through me to Harald-giving every indication of making a fair recovery. Though he still slept much of the time, striving to recapture his strength through rest, I formed the impression that he was indeed returning to health.
Standing at the rail, we watched the city emerge from the heat haze, shimmering atop its high-humped hills-like a dazzling white pearl couched on a bed of dusty green and grey.
"This is the much-vaunted City of Gold?" asked Kazimain. Owing to the presence of so many foreigners, she was forced to wear the veil continually, and though I could see her eyes, I could not discern the thought behind her words.
"That it is," I replied, and reflected how different this arrival seemed from the first. Then I had approached the city in fear and trembling, with dread in my bones, convinced that death awaited me the moment I set foot on the quay. Oh, but that was a different man from the one that looked out over the rail. The eyes that now beheld Byzantium belonged to a harder Aidan, stronger and more wise.
"I thought," Kazimain said, "it would be a bigger place."
Glancing to where the amir stood talking quietly to Faysal, I said, "Lord Sadiq seems very well. It is good to see him hale once more." Turning back to the glistering white of the city, we watched in silence for a time, my thoughts drifting inevitably towards events to come. After awhile, I said, "We are close now, Kazimain. Truly, I can feel it-justice lies within my grasp."
"You are so confident, my love."
"We have but to present ourselves to the emperor and reveal the plot against him, and our enemies will be destroyed."
"Allah alone shapes the future," Kazimain chided gently, moving away. "Only Allah may say what will be."
How wrong you are, my love, I thought, the future belongs to those who dare seize it for themselves.
I did not know whether Nikos employed spies, and if so whether they worked the harbours of Byzantium, but I considered it likely. In any event, the sudden appearance of three Viking longships would no doubt arouse some small interest, even among the jaded denizens of Constantinople. And while I did not care to warn our enemies unnecessarily, I could think of no way to avoid it; ships must come to port, and men must disembark.
Once again, I deemed speed our surest hope. If we could reach the emperor shortly after making port, we might strike before the foe knew we had landed; failing that, we could at least forestall any but the most hastily mounted opposition.
Still, it was a risk. After all we had endured, I reckoned it a poor exchange that we must trust fate and fortune to such uncertainty. As we drew nearer and the city loomed ever larger, its crowded harbours lining the stout walls, its famed seven hills rising above all, the thought occurred to me to change our approach.
"Jarl Harald!" I cried from the rail. "Make for Hormisdas Harbour!"
He regarded me with surprise but gave the command. As the ship swung around unexpectedly, the amir demanded to know why we had suddenly altered course.
I explained that since, so far as I knew, Harald's were the only longships in the emperor's employ, our arrival in the imperial harbour could but warn Nikos that we had returned. "We will attract the least notice passing among the foreign vessels of Hormisdas Harbour, and our arrival will not be marked if we use the Barbarians' Gate."
The amir grimaced at the term, but accepted my suggestion with good grace. "No doubt it is but a gate like any other," he remarked. "Humility also has its benefits."
We proceeded slowly into the crowded port, steeling ourselves for the impending confrontation. Alas, deeds taking place in Byzantium's black and twisted heart had long since rendered our small subterfuge a meaningless gesture.
Closer, we saw that the bay was heavily crowded-ships from every part of the world rode at anchor before us, thick on the water.
"I think something is wrong here." Harald scanned the clutter of masts cramming the quayside ahead-a veritable forest. "It is not as it was before."
At first I did not comprehend his meaning. The quayside appeared exactly as I remembered it. However, Dugal, standing beside me at the rail, confirmed Harald's observation when he said, "I did not think this place ever knew a moment's peace."
"Jarl Harald was just saying he thinks something is wrong, but I cannot-"
And then I saw it: the harbour was strangely becalmed. None of the sea-going vessels were moving. The lack of activity on the part of the larger craft had escaped my notice because the usual number of small boats still plied the clogged waters, busily ferrying passengers to and fro. These, however, accounted for the only movement in the harbour. All the big ships-and there were hundreds-remained motionless. I saw ships sitting low in the water, fully laden, but none were making for the docks to unload their goods.
What is more, the wharf appeared more than usually crowded; all along its length, people were thronged in dense knots, and swarmed around the gates, but the crowds, like the ships, were motionless, and I saw no one carrying cargo.
Turning back to the rail, I hailed the nearest boatman and, as soon as he had drawn near, inquired why none of the ships were docking or unloading. "The harbour is closed," the boatman answered. "And the gates."
Harald joined me and demanded to know what I had learned. Upon receiving my reply, the king said, "Ask him why this has happened."
Turning once again to the boatman, I asked, and was appalled at the answer I received. The sun in the sky seemed to dim, and I felt the same awful impotent frustration I had felt the day Bishop Cadoc was murdered.
"What does he say?" asked Harald impatiently. Brynach and Faysal needed no translation, and both at once besieged the boatman with questions. Faysal then hastened to rouse the amir with the tidings.
Gripping the rail between my hands, I turned to King Harald who was awaiting my reply. "He says-" I replied, my voice hollow in my ears, "-the emperor is dead."
Unable to credit the words, I said them again, "The emperor is dead. They have closed the harbours and gates to all foreigners." Looking past Harald along the line of those crowding the rail, I said, "I must tell the amir."
"The amir has heard," said a tired voice behind me. "We have come too late."
Sadiq stepped to the rail, Faysal beside him; the amir nodded to Faysal, who called down to the boatman. The two talked for a moment, whereupon Faysal turned and said, "He says the Golden Gate remains open."
Upon further questioning, and payment of a silver coin, the boatman went on to explain that in times of great import-such as an imperial birth, wedding, or death-the various entrances to the city were closed to allow the soldiery to assume other duties. The Golden Gate, however, was never shut, save in time of war; but owing to the crush of people, gaining entry into the city would be very difficult.
This I relayed to Harald, whereupon the jarl called the men to oars, and soon we were sliding slowly along the city's great southern wall towards the district known as Psamathia. Although we found no proper harbour there, the water proved deep enough for secure anchorage-indeed many ships were already berthed there, prow to shore, while waiting to take on goods or provisions, or to make repairs before undertaking voyages.
Thorkel quickly found a place to drop anchor, and commanded the ships to be lashed together. We then formed a landing party.
Harald reckoned he should be the first to go ashore; he had it in mind to proceed directly to the palace and settle accounts with whoever the new emperor might be.
"You are a striking figure, Jarl Harald. What if someone were to recognize you?" I argued. "We cannot risk warning Nikos unnecessarily. If he escapes us now, all we have endured will be for nothing. We cannot allow that to happen."
Jarl Harald did not like it, but in the end was persuaded to wait, at least until we could see how matters stood at court. It was agreed that Brynach and myself should go, along with Dugal to act as bodyguard. We hailed a small boat and Harald gave us each a handful of silver coins; he also gave Dugal a sword. The incident put me in mind of the day the monks of Kells first set off, when Lord Aengus offered him a blade, which Bishop Cadoc refused. This time, however, Dugal took it.
As Faysal arranged with the boatman to take us to shore, the amir called me to him. "You must be very careful, Aidan," he advised, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Our enemies are men without souls." Then, raising his dark eyes to mine, he warned: "Do not become one of them." He stood for a time gazing at me, then left, saying, "Bring me word when you return."
"Of course, Lord Sadiq," I replied, and watched him stoop like an old man as he entered his tented chamber.
A moment later, Faysal called that the boat was waiting. Brynach and Dugal were already boarded. Before sliding over the rail to join them, I glanced at the tented platform and saw Kazimain watching, her veil to one side. She was frowning because of the sun in her eyes, but it seemed in that moment an expression of utter disapproval and sorrow. Then she saw me, and the glower vanished in her smile. Still, I wondered whether her true feelings were not more truly declared in the frown.
The Greek sailors began clamouring for their pay and release. Leaving Faysal and Harald to deal with them, I lowered myself into the waiting boat. As the boatman worked the oar, I instructed Brynach and Dugal, speaking in our common tongue so as not to be overheard, "I think it best if we pretend to be traders. Should anyone ask, we will tell them we have come to buy spices and oil."
"To look at us," put in Dugal, fanning his billowy mantle, "you would not think us monks."
"A small deception," Brynach observed. "But if you think it necessary, I have no objection."
"I would feel better for it," I told him. "Since we are traders, and have been travelling for many days, our ignorance of affairs in Constantinople will not appear suspicious."
Brynach eyed me dubiously. "Do you believe him so powerful, this Nikos, that we must practise such deceits?"
"Ships sail at his command, and high officials die in their beds," I spat, anger flaring instantly. "You yourself have suffered at his hands, and watched your brothers succumb to his intrigues one after another. How is it you have seen all this and still do not believe?"
"Oh, I believe," replied Brynach slowly, "make no mistake. I believe him to be no more than a man-a wicked, hateful man, perhaps, but human nonetheless. But you, Aidan-you make him out a demon with powers over the very air and light."
"Until I see him dead and in his grave," I replied coldly, "I will believe him the Devil incarnate, and treat with him accordingly."
"It is our Lord Christ who upholds and protects us," Brynach said firmly. "We have nothing to fear."
"Sure, he has shown himself a sorry protector," I snapped. "Look around you, Brother Brynach, we have been beset with death and disaster at every turn, and our great good God has done nothing!"
"We are still alive," Dugal pointed out. His mild, unwitting faith irritated me.
"Yes, and how many others are not alive!" My anger drew the boatman's attention; he raised his eyebrows. Lowering my voice, I forced myself to remain calm. "I wonder whether our dead brothers, or the two hundred and more who fell in the ambush, would share your smug appraisal."
"I had no idea you felt so ill-used," Brynach replied, adopting a calm, unperturbed tone.
"Say nothing of my feelings," I said coldly. "But tell me, if you can, how many more people must die before you understand how little God cares?"
Dugal, taken aback by the force of my outburst, stared at me as if at a stranger.
Unable to make them see the stark futility of their faith, I shut my mouth and turned my face away until the boat bumped against the low stone quay, and we disembarked. I paid the boatman, and started at once for the gate, which we could see rising above the squatting hovels that spread like an unwholesome crust over the muck and mire of the marsh-lands along the wide stinking ditch beneath Constantinople's western wall. These were the homes, so to speak, of the day-labourers who unloaded the ships and carried the goods to and from the markets. This day the harbours were closed, and the workers idle; they watched us as we passed.
Picking our way through refuse heaps and reeking mud, we came to the Egnatian Way, the road which passed through the Golden Gate, eventually becoming The Mese and leading directly to the forum and the palace. Upon reaching the road, we saw that the wide, stone-paved expanse had become a river of humanity-and a turgid river at that, moving with almost imperceptible slowness, albeit with ear-numbing clamour towards the pale yellow gate far, far ahead.
There seemed no other choice but to join the throng jostling its slow way towards the city. This we did, pushing our way in behind a group of men carrying large stuffed bags made of heavy sackcloth. We shuffled slowly along together for a time, the five throwing off their weighty burdens every now and then to give themselves a rest before moving on again. It was during one such lull in the march that I spoke to them, offering to help shoulder the weight of their sacks.
"Your offer is generous, my friend," the leader of the group told me, "but we have no money with which to repay your kindness."
"We have come to the city to make our fortune," another said-a young man with a dark feather-wisp smudge of moustache. The head man gave him a disapproving look which he blithely ignored, and announced: "We are the best potters in all Nicea."
"Have you travelled far?" I asked.
"Not as far as you, by the look of it," answered the leader dourly.
"We have been some time in the east," I volunteered. "Is this road always so crowded?"
"You must be the only men in all Byzantium who do not know what has happened," the chief potter said, regarding us dubiously.
"The basileus is dead!" the young man informed me with undisguised pleasure.
"Truly?" I asked, trying to sound suitably amazed.
Dugal joined in, saying, "When did this happen?" His Greek was not good, and the men stared at him before answering.
"Six days ago," said another potter, unable to resist any longer. Indicating the sack on the ground between his feet, he said, "We have made funeral bowls which we will sell in the markets here." So saying, the man untied the mouth of the bag, reached in and grabbed what appeared to be a handful of straw. From the straw, he withdrew a pale blue and white bowl, finely made, if somewhat small and shallow. He offered me the bowl to examine, and I saw the inside had been decorated with an image of a man wearing a crown and holding a spear in one hand and a cross in the other. Below the man, who appeared to be standing atop one of the city's domes, was the word Basil.
"It is very handsome," I said, passing it to Brynach for his appreciative appraisal.
"City people will pay very much for this fine work," he said proudly. "And we have made three hundred of these bowls to sell."
"The emperor's funeral," I mused, steering the conversation back onto course, "is it to be soon?"
"Why, it is tomorrow," replied the leader. Then leaning close, he confided the secret of their hoped-for success: "We are going to sell our bowls outside the Hagia Sophia." Taking the bowl from Dugal, he put his finger on the image of the dome and gave me a conspiratorial wink. "We know where the funeral procession will pass."
"I wish you well," I said. "It seems we have chosen a poor time to come to the city."
"A poor time," agreed one of the potters, "if you hoped to sup with the emperor!" Everyone laughed at this outrageous suggestion. "But maybe not so bad if you have something to sell."
"Especially," continued the second potter, "if you stay long enough to welcome the new emperor." So saying, he withdrew another bowl, the same as the first in every detail-the same man with spear and cross standing atop the same dome-save for the inscription which read, Leo. "We have made three hundred of these also."
"You have sown your seed with admirable fore-thought," Brynach said. "I wish you a bountiful harvest." He paused and asked, "Is it known how the emperor died?"
"They are saying it was a hunting accident," the chief potter confided with a gossip's enthusiasm. "It happened at the summer palace at Apamea."
"A stag pulled him from his horse and gored him," added the youth helpfully. "They say the emperor was dragged twenty miles before they could get him free of the beast."
"That is not certain, Issacius," cautioned his elder. "It is a sin to repeat rumours."
"The emperor's guards were with him and they saw everything that happened," continued the youth, his zeal unabated.
"No one saw what happened," asserted one of the other potters. "I heard the basileus had ridden ahead, and no one knew anything was wrong until they saw his horse running away. That is why the Farghanese were too far away to help."
"They gave chase and cornered the stag," continued the second potter with a dark look at the youth. "One of the bodyguard had to cut the emperor's belt to free him from the stag's antlers."
"Yes, but the beast escaped into the forest." The youth paused to enjoy the effect of his next announcement. "It took the emperor nine days to die."
"Nothing good comes of repeating rumours," the chief potter scolded. To us he said, "The truth is that we have heard many things. Some say one thing, and some say another, and they cannot all be right. I think no one really knows what happened. Therefore, it is perhaps best to say as little as possible."
"A wise course," I agreed. We talked about the possible funeral preparations and the various imperial ceremonies, and when I judged we had learned what we could from the potters, I bade them farewell.
Leaving the enforced procession, we made our way back to the ships. Dugal led the way, and I followed, heedless of the muck and stink, mindful only of the scheme taking shape in my mind.