A broad river called the Svir flowed from Onega to Lake Ladoga and the land of Rus. Empty huts began to appear in clearings slashed into the forest. The dwellings were the summer quarters of hunter-gatherers. After weeks of sleeping rough, the travellers were grateful for the shelter offered by the simple lodgings. It was now early October and winter was treading at their heels. Each day the numbers of wildfowl passing overhead grew fewer. Each night the cold gripped tighter. Two more Icelanders had died, starved beyond recovery despite Vallon ordering the slaughter of the remaining horses.
His wound had knitted cleanly. He kissed Hero and told him that without the Sicilian’s physicking he would have died a slow and suppurating death. Hero was trying to take satisfaction from that as he and Richard plodded one morning along the riverbank ahead of the longship. It was the only comfort he could dredge from their situation. Still days from Novgorod, the food almost gone, many of the travellers sick. Wayland was restored and spent most of the daylight hours hunting, but without the dog’s help he couldn’t kill enough to satisfy the falcons’ appetites. All of them had lost so much muscle that their keels stuck out like knives, and one of them screamed for food from dawn to dark.
The Vikings and Icelanders couldn’t understand why the falcons should receive any meat while they themselves were forced to boil moss for soup and chew on horse hide to dull their hunger pangs. The previous day, when Wayland and Syth returned from a hunting trip with a hare to show for their efforts, the Vikings and Icelanders had crowded round demanding that the carcass be handed over. Vallon had forced them to back off, but it had been close. If they didn’t find food in the next day or two, a violent breakdown was inevitable. After that, barbarism and worse. The weak left behind to die, cannibalism …
Richard seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Drogo takes care to stand back, but have no doubt, he’s waiting for the moment when he can move against Vallon.’
Hero sighed and shook his head. The sky, heavy with clouds the colour of ploughshares, mirrored his mood.
They trudged on. Grey spots floated past Hero’s eyes. He rubbed them and saw that snow was falling — big downy flakes already beginning to settle.
Richard stopped. ‘We’d better go back.’
‘There’s a path,’ said Hero, pointing to a winding depression highlighted by the snow. ‘It probably leads to a cabin. We might not spot it from the ship.’
Soon the snow obliterated all trace of the path and only the sound of the river gave them their direction. Hero was about to step around a stunted bush when it jumped up and shouted. More shouts and vague figures darting through the snow. An arrow whizzed past his head.
‘Peace! Pax! Eirene!’
The commotion stilled. Through the feathery whiteness he made out figures crouched behind dark bales. Three men with arrows trained on him stalked forward. They were dressed in pelts, their eyes narrowed in hostile squints. One of them jabbered in Russian.
‘We’re merchants. Travelling to Novgorod.’
The Russians understood ‘Novgorod’. Their spokesman jabbed behind Hero, asking how many were with him.
He counted thirty on his fingers and the Russians yammered at each other.
The drakkar’s dragon stem slid out of the snow with Vallon at the prow looking like death warmed up and Drogo beside him in his mail coat and iron helmet.
The Russians scattered. ‘Varangians!’
‘No! Wait. Not Varangians.’
Wulfstan shouted in Russian and vaulted off the longship. The woodsmen stopped at a distance. Wulfstan called again, making beckoning gestures. The woodsmen skulked back, bowing and begging the travellers’ pardon. Wulfstan spoke a smattering of their language and established that they were frontiersmen who’d spent the summer trapping game and collecting honey and beeswax. They were on their way home by canoe to their village at the mouth of the Volkhov river, three days to the west.
Wayland emerged from the forest while the parties were negotiating. He took one look at the Russians and hurried up to a boy with a string of willow grouse slung around his neck. He flinched away when Wayland reached out for them. Wayland turned to Wulfstan. ‘Tell him I want to buy them.’
The boy’s father came over. He assessed Wayland’s desperate gaze and said something that made the other Russians laugh.
Wayland lurched round. ‘What did he say?’
‘You can have them for five squirrels,’ said Wulfstan.
‘I don’t have five squirrels. If I did, I wouldn’t need the grouse.’
Wulfstan grinned. ‘The backwoodsmen measure money in furs. Squirrels is their smallest unit of currency. Reckon a penny will buy all those grouse and a haunch of venison thrown in.’
For two silver pennies, Wayland purchased enough game to feed the falcons for three days.
Later, at the Russians’ camp, Richard traded fox skins for a sack of rye flour and two dripping honeycombs. That night the wanderers squeezed hugger-mugger into a cabin and ate bread for the first time in a month. The cooked dough was of the crudest manufacture — charred and gritty bannocks consumed in a smoke-filled hut chinked up with moss — yet all sank their heads in reverential silence when Father Hilbert said grace.
Civilised Rus began at Staraja Ladoga, a fortified town a few miles up the Volkhov river. Here they stopped briefly to take on supplies. South of the town the forest thinned into sandy heath dotted with steely ponds and clumps of pines and birches. Then the voyagers came to farmland, rowing past sturdy log cabins set in meadows where geese hissed and flapped and cockerels crowed. Between the farms were fine stands of oak and maple that rang with the sound of axes. Farmers straightened up from their toil to watch the longship pass. Many of them crossed themselves, perhaps remembering their grandparents’ tales of an olden time when the appearance of a dragon ship would have put the populace to flight. Their children had no such misgivings and chased the longship along the banks waving sticks. ‘Varangians! Varangians!’
Four days after leaving the lake they reached Novgorod. North of the city the river branched around a large island with a tollbooth at its tip. Here an armed and mounted delegation directed them towards the shore. Their leader, a man with a face pitted by smallpox, was elegantly turned out in an ankle-length fur coat fastened with silver buttons. He addressed the stinking rabble as if they were exarchs on a mission from Byzantium.
‘Welcome to Novgorod the Great,’ he said in Norse. ‘The hunters you met on the Svir sent news of your arrival. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Andrei Ivanov, steward to Lord Vasili, a boyar of the city and master of its guild of merchants.’ His eyes flickered about. ‘Who speaks for you?’
Hands pointed at Vallon.
‘The hunters said you travelled from the White Sea, but they didn’t know where you began your voyage.’
Vallon looked for Wayland. ‘You tell him.’
‘We sailed from England this spring and journeyed here by way of Iceland and Greenland.’
Andrei guffawed. ‘Listen, I’ve been in the shipping trade too long to be taken in by travellers’ tales.’
‘Believe what you like,’ said Wayland. ‘I’m English and so is that girl. Vallon our leader is a Frank. Those two are Normans. That lot are Icelanders. The rest are Vikings from Halogaland. If you doubt my word, ask the thin man with the tonsure. He’s a monk from Germany. Until a few weeks ago, we had another German with us. He was killed by Lapps in the forest.’
Andrei traded wondering looks with his escort, then took off his hat. ‘Forgive my scepticism. You’re the first travellers to reach Nov — gorod by such a roundabout route. What goods are you carrying?’
‘Walrus ivory, sea unicorn horns, eider down, sulphur, seal oil.’
‘The hunters said you had gyrfalcons?’
‘It’s true. I trapped them myself in Greenland’s northern hunting grounds.’
‘Please, if you don’t mind, I would like to see.’
Not without pride, Wayland uncovered the cage holding the white haggard.
Andrei crouched to inspect the falcon. When he spoke, his tone was matter of fact. ‘My lord has a wealthy client who loves to follow the falcon’s flight. He’s a prince who pays handsomely for his pleasures. Even though this specimen looks like a feather duster, I’ll give you a price far higher than you could obtain in the marketplace.’
‘The falcons aren’t for sale.’
Andrei frowned. ‘Why bring them to Novgorod if not to sell them?’
‘We’re not stopping here. We’re just passing through on our way to Anatolia.’
‘Rum? You’re going to Rum?’
‘As soon as we’ve rested and purchased the necessities.’
Andrei laughed. ‘Novgorod is as far as you’ll get this year. Sell the falcons while they’re still healthy.’
‘I’m sorry. They’re already spoken for.’
Andrei backed off. ‘Do you have silver to pay for your stay in Novgorod?’
Wayland glanced at Richard. ‘We can pay our way.’
Andrei bowed to Vallon. ‘Then your comfort is assured. Our city has a quarter set aside for foreign merchants. You’ll find Novgorod a welcoming place. It even has a Roman church.’
Vallon bowed in turn. ‘Thank you. We’ll need three separate establishments. The Icelanders and Vikings aren’t here by my choosing.’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Andrei. His escorts assisted him into the saddle. ‘You’re only five versts from Novgorod. About three miles.’ He spurred forward. ‘I’ll be waiting to welcome you.’
The longship rowed up the right-hand channel and soon the voyagers saw the city of Novgorod straddling both banks.
Richard whistled. ‘I never expected anything half so grand.’
The metropolis was constructed entirely of wood except for a great stone citadel and a church crowned with five cupolas on the west bank. The company rowed under a covered bridge wide enough to let cart traffic pass in both directions. On the other side Andrei waved to them from a wharf on the east bank. A gang of labourers stood ready. The voyagers rowed to shore and tied up.
‘Your lodgings are being prepared,’ Andrei told them. ‘My men will carry your cargo.’ He clapped his hands and the porters jumped into the boats and began loading the cargo into handcarts.
‘We don’t want him to find out too much of our business,’ Hero murmured to Vallon.
‘I suspect that before we go to our beds tonight, he’ll know our worth down to the last clipped penny.’
The steward led them up lanes paved with split logs and lined with stockaded houses. Most of the lots were about a hundred feet by fifty, but some were two or three times that size. Andrei stopped first at a gateway recessed in a paling fence. He opened the gate and pointed at a barn. ‘This is for your Norwegians. No luxuries. Just straw to sleep on and clean well water. My men will make sure that they have enough to eat and don’t disturb the peace.’
‘I’ll pay for your food and lodgings,’ Vallon told the Vikings. ‘Drink beer, but not to excess. If you get into trouble, don’t look to me for help. As for whores, you’ll have to make your own arrangements.’
Next they stopped at the Icelanders’ lodgings. ‘The house can sleep twelve if two share each bed,’ Andrei said. ‘The rest will have to sleep in the stables.’
Caitlin marched up to Vallon. ‘I’m not sharing a bed and I’m not sleeping in a house with strange men. And I’m not bedding down in a byre. I insist on separate quarters. I’ll pay from my own purse.’
Vallon shrugged at Andrei.
The steward gave an order and one of his men escorted Caitlin and her maids back down the road. ‘I can see that one’s used to having her own way,’ Andrei said. His brows arched in enquiry. ‘A lady of high birth?’
Vallon smiled. ‘A princess. In her own estimation.’
Andrei watched her stride away with her maids hurrying alongside. ‘Well, there are plenty of princes who’d be happy to make her their consort. I’ve never seen a woman so lusciously put together.’
When the Icelanders had disappeared into their compound, Drogo and Fulk stood outside looking at a loss. Vallon eyed them bleakly. ‘I suppose you’d better lodge with us.’
Andrei’s final stop was at a stockade enclosing a handsome house and outbuildings that included a bathhouse, stables and caretaker’s cottage. Knotwork carvings decorated the gables. Calling out, Andrei ran up steps to a porch leading to a lobby. A raised door gave entry to a communal hall where a team of peasant women were whisking the plank floor under the supervision of the caretaker and his wife. All the domestics made servile bows at Andrei’s entrance. He appeared not to notice them. Half a dozen sleeping benches lined the walls and a domed clay stove belched smoke in a corner diagonally opposite the door. There was no chimney and the only ventilation was provided by a roof hatch and tiny slotted windows. Andrei spoke sharply to the caretaker. He in turn barked an order and one of the drudges knelt by the stove and tried to fan it into flame.
Andrei pushed open another door into a chamber furnished with a single cot, a table and a bench. An icon of the Virgin with Child hung in the right-hand corner. ‘This is for you,’ he told Vallon. ‘It’s small, but you might be grateful for the privacy.’
‘To a man who’s known only cold ground for bed and empty sky for a roof, it’s a palace.’
‘Lord Vasili reserves the property for his special guests. He requests that you do him the honour of feasting with him the day after tomorrow.’ Andrei smiled. ‘Bring the Icelandic princess and her attendants. A degree of formality is in order, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re presentable.’
Anyone walking through the compound next morning would have sworn that the house was untenanted. Inside, the voyagers sprawled like dead men, Drogo and Fulk curled up together on a shelf above the stove, both of them still dressed in their foul garments. Even Wayland didn’t stir until after dark and he had to ask the caretaker what day it was before shuffling out to feed the falcons.
Next day the caretaker rounded up the male guests and shepherded them into the bania, while his wife took Syth off to Caitlin’s lodgings. He made them strip off in the lobby, and as they shed their clothes a servant gathered them up and threw them outside to be burned.
‘Hey,’ Hero called. ‘Those are the only garments we possess.’
The caretaker chivvied them into the steam room. They sat naked on low benches, sweat carving pale tracks down their filthy skin. When their bodies were passably clean, the caretaker handed out bundles of birch twigs and showed them how to scourge each other’s backs. Then he drove them out into the courtyard where servants threw buckets of cold water over them before herding them back into the bania. After three sessions of the steam- and ice-water treatment, the company ran back into the lobby to find clean clothes waiting. Servants handed each man a plain linen shirt cut square at the collar, a pair of loose-fitting trousers, and leather shoes that tied above the ankles. ‘A gift from Lord Vasili,’ said the caretaker.
‘What does he want in return?’ Hero whispered to Vallon.
Another surprise awaited them when they returned to the house. In their absence the hall had been converted to an emporium where half a dozen tailors and furriers had laid out woollen or silk caftans and pantaloons, robes and capes of marten, bear, wolf and squirrel, sable and beaver. There were jewellers, too, displaying wares of silver, enamel and cloisonne.
Vallon looked at the finery and then he looked at Hero. ‘There’s your answer. We can hardly refuse to buy and I’ll wager Vasili takes a generous commission.’
But he blenched when the outfitters told them the prices of the garments. ‘We can’t afford that sort of money.’
‘We can’t insult Vasili by turning up in his hand-outs,’ said Hero.
Richard rescued the situation. He took his treasurer’s role seriously and kept himself informed on matters relating to currency and exchange. From the Vikings he’d learned that central Asia was the traditional source of their silver. In the last fifty years the Asian silver mines had become exhausted, leading to a debasement of the currency. Most of the coinage circulating in Rus had a silver content of only one part in ten.
‘Our English pennies contain nine parts of silver,’ Richard said. ‘So the answer’s simple. Offer one-eighth the tailors’ asking price.’
It wasn’t that easy, of course, but Richard held firm and the merchants eventually slashed their prices by more than half.
While Vallon was looking through the clothes, he saw Drogo standing awkward and aloof. ‘You and Fulk had better choose something.’
‘I told you I don’t want your charity.’
‘You’ve accepted enough of it already.’
‘Then I won’t take more.’
‘Don’t be so stiff-necked. Consider it payment for services rendered.’
Drogo gave a curt nod. ‘What about Caitlin and the other women?’
Hero looked up. ‘Let her pay for her clothes out of the money she stole from the old woman.’
Drogo’s temper flared. ‘Apologise for that slander.’
‘It’s true,’ Richard said. ‘I heard her make the accusation.’
‘A malicious slur. Caitlin was keeping the money safe.’
‘Shut up,’ Vallon ordered. ‘All of you. We’ve come through hell and you’re squabbling about clothes.’ He rubbed his brow. ‘Wayland, get down to the women’s house and tell them they can choose new clothes at my expense. Richard, you go with him to negotiate a fair price. Oh, Wayland, tell the princess to show some restraint.’
They ran down the lane to Caitlin’s lodgings and found the women fresh from the bania, trying on costumes laid out by a bevy of seamstresses. One of Caitlin’s maids screamed and nudged a breast back into hiding.
Wayland blushed. ‘Oh, you’ve already started.’
Caitlin laughed. ‘Don’t worry. We’re just playing at dressing up. Even the cheapest outfit is beyond our means.’
‘Vallon said he’d pay.’
Caitlin’s face lit up. ‘Really?’
‘With me doing the bargaining,’ said Richard.
Syth put her hands around Wayland’s waist. Her breasts stirred under a sleeveless linen dress. ‘Do you mean it? Can I have a gown?’
‘You look lovely as you are.’
She nudged him with her shoulder. ‘Don’t be a goose. This is what peasants wear.’ She pulled his face down and spoke into his ear. ‘Just for once I’d like to dress like a lady. It won’t be long before I’m back in tunic and breeches.’
‘We’re making progress,’ Richard called. ‘A quarter off the prices already.’
‘Go on then,’ Wayland said.
One of the costumiers advanced on Syth displaying a misty blue gown with long sleeves edged with beaver.
‘What do you think?’ Syth asked.
‘It’s nice. It suits you.’
‘Can’t you do better than that?’
Wayland felt trapped. ‘It goes with your eyes.’
The assistant moved him aside with her hip and held up another dress in a light turquoise silk. Syth draped it against herself. ‘This one is tighter fitting. It will show my figure better.’
‘Whatever you decide.’
‘Wayland, you’re not even looking.’
One of Caitlin’s handmaids laughed.
‘A third off and we haven’t reached bottom,’ Richard announced.
Syth decided on the turquoise gown. She took from the assistant a padlock-shaped pendant enamelled with a pair of lovebirds. ‘This would set it off beautifully.’
‘I don’t know, Syth.’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s just that … after Raul’s death … the dog … it doesn’t seem right somehow.’
Syth handed the pendant back and looked down, a tear trembling on her lashes.
Caitlin pulled Wayland aside. ‘You really know how to make a maid happy, don’t you? Let her be a lady for one night. Isn’t she worth it?’
Wayland stared at her. He nodded and turned back to Syth. He took the pendant from the assistant. ‘I’ll pay for it myself.’ He coughed. ‘My first gift.’
Syth wiped her eyes, then leaned forward and gave him the lightest of kisses. ‘Not the first.’
He was at the door when he remembered the rider to Vallon’s message. Three dressers heaped with luxurious garments had homed in on Caitlin and others were waiting. ‘Vallon said …’
Caitlin gave him an imperious look. ‘Yes?’
Richard swung round, fired up by haggling. ‘We’re down to bargain prices.’
‘Don’t go mad,’ said Wayland, and fled to peals of laughter.
Watchmen were doing their rounds as Andrei escorted the guests in their finery to his master’s city mansion. An avenue of torches lit the way to the entrance of the house, where Lord Vasili stood in welcome — a spruce dark man of about fifty with a gold incisor and a trim beard flecked with grey. His clothes bespoke understated wealth — a grey caftan of shot silk with gold brocade cuffs, over it a dark-blue robe with a belt of gold and enamel. He greeted his guests in Norse, but when Hero was presented, he switched to Greek and Arabic, lamenting his inability to turn an elegant phrase in either language. After each introduction, each solicitous enquiry, Vasili’s steward directed the guest to his or her place at a banqueting table lit by a soft blaze of candles.
He seated Vallon and Hero at Vasili’s right and left respectively, with the other male guests opposite and the ladies grouped at one end of the table. Two retainers circulated with drinks and appetisers and the guests found that they could choose from beer, kvas and four different brews of mead. A train of servants entered with the main meal and the diners gasped. There was a roast sucking pig, platters of game, pies and pastries, jellied pike and salmon, pots of caviar and sour cream, half a dozen kinds of bread, including wheaten loaves made with grain from the south and a special bake flavoured with honey and poppy seed.
While the guests made their selection, Vasili engaged those around him in conversation. Looking into each man’s eyes by turn, he elicited their function and status while stating where their interests and experiences touched his own. He was a man of the world and therefore a friend of it. He’d built his fortune through trade with Kiev and Byzantium in the south; Germany, Poland and Sweden to the west; the Arab and Persian lands in the east. Twice he’d made the journey to Constantinople, and as a young man he’d traded with Arab caravans at Bolghar on the Volga bend.
While his guests ate, he listened to Hero’s account of their own journey and plans.
‘How many people will be travelling in your party?’
‘If the Vikings join us, about a dozen.’
Vasili laid be-ringed fingers on Vallon’s hand. ‘Honoured guest, I hate to dash your intentions. Early summer, when the Dnieper is swollen with snowmelt, is the only time it’s possible to travel the Road to the Greeks. At this season the rivers in the northern part are too low to navigate. Better wait until next year. Or, of course, you can sell your goods here.’ He glanced at Wayland before turning his attention back to Vallon. ‘I believe my steward mentioned that the falcons would find a ready sale with one of my Arab clients. He has a deep purse.’
Vallon watched Wayland chewing on a wodge of pork. Alone among the diners, he seemed immune to Vasili’s charm.
‘The falcons are the reason for the journey south. In a way, we’re not taking them; they’re leading us.’
‘Hero said that the ransom demanded four falcons. You have six. Sell me two of them, including the white haggard.’
‘No,’ Wayland said, not even looking up.
Vallon glared at him before smiling at Vasili. ‘We can’t afford to part with any of the falcons. We lost two of them on the White Sea coast and came close to seeing them all perish in the forest. If we leave here with six, I’ll count myself lucky if we reach Anatolia with four.’
Vasili withdrew his hand. ‘Then I’ll say no more on the subject.’ He dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
Vallon sensed a straining of the mood and eased it by changing the subject. ‘How do affairs stand in Rus?’
Vasili waved away a pastry offered to him by a retainer. He inclined his head towards Vallon and lowered his voice. ‘Not well. It grieves me to tell you that you’ve arrived in my beloved motherland to find her fortunes at a low ebb. Under Grand Prince Jaroslav — God keep his soul — the federation was united from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Jaroslav was called “the Wise”, but his wits must have fled him on his deathbed. Before he died he portioned out the realm among five sons. The three eldest formed a triumvirate — that most unstable of arrangements whether in love, war or affairs of state. Another poisonous element corrupted the realm. This was Prince Vseslav of Polotsk, an outsider from within, great-grandson of Vladimir the Saint. Vseslav is a sorcerer and werewolf. You smile, but I know the man and can vouch that he’s an adept of the magic arts.’
Vasili sipped from his beaker. ‘Five years ago the triumvirate imprisoned Vseslav in Kiev. Many people believe that his sorcery was responsible for our country’s woes. The following year the nomads of the southern steppes took advantage of the rivalry among the Rus princes and attacked in force. When they defeated our army, the citizens of Kiev rioted, released Vseslav and proclaimed him their prince. He was dethroned a year later and fled back to Polotsk, where he sits weaving his spells and planning his next move. The reason I dwell on this character is that you’ll have to pass through the wild country bordering his principality. A convoy as small as yours could disappear in the forests and no one would be any the wiser.’
Vasili sat up in concern. ‘Honoured friend, my glum tidings are putting you off your food. Let me help you to a piroschki. Here, have some spiced mead. It’s a great stimulus to the appetite.’
‘It’s not your warnings that blunt my appetite. Not many days ago a Viking laid my belly open. I still wear the stitches. My physician has ordered me to eat sparingly and avoid meat until I’m fully recovered.’
Vasili looked rather at a loss, as if he thought Vallon might be teasing him.
‘Tell us more about the journey south,’ said Vallon.
Vasili placed an amber spoon on the table. ‘Novgorod.’
Picking up a silver salt, he placed it halfway across the table. ‘Kiev.’
On the far side of the table he placed his gold beaker. ‘Constantinople.’
Dipping a finger into his drink, he traced a line from Novgorod. ‘From here you cross Lake Ilmen and travel up the Lovat. This part of the journey will cost you much effort. As I said, the river will be low and you can only navigate it in small boats. Even then, for every verst you sail or row, you’ll have to tow for two versts.’
Vasili tapped the table between Novgorod and Kiev. ‘Here you leave the river and make the great portage across the watershed. It takes about six days. The shortest route takes you to the Western Dvina and then to the upper reaches of the Dnieper below Smolensk. If I were you, I’d avoid that city. The merchants there are rogues.’
Vasili wetted his finger again and marked the course of the Dnieper to Kiev. ‘At first the river is narrow and flows through a forest. Soon other rivers join it, swelling its course to two versts or more. From Kiev the journey is easy — seventy versts a day — until you reach here.’ Vasili jabbed with his finger. ‘Here the river funnels through a gorge and plunges over nine cataracts. Sometimes you will have to wade and guide your boats around the rocks by hand. Every year many ships and lives are lost. In your case, the loss is certain because you won’t be able to find any pilots willing to guide you through the rapids.’
‘Why not?’
Vasili stabbed a finger. ‘Because even if the rapids spit you out alive, the greatest peril still lies ahead.’
‘The Pechenegs,’ said Hero.
Vasili smiled. ‘So the reputation of the steppe nomads has travelled outside Rus. Well, I have news for you. The good news is that the Pechenegs were driven off the southern steppe about ten years ago. The bad news is that the warriors who scattered them are barbarians of the same stamp, but even fiercer and more insatiable. They are the same savages who threatened Kiev four years ago. Cumans, they call themselves. They lie in wait at the end of the gorge, but they move so unpredictably that you could encounter them anywhere beyond Kievan territory. Let me tell you something, my brother. The Cumans are so dangerous that no merchant dares travel through their territory except in the company of a fleet protected by soldiers. Merchants wouldn’t spend money unless it was necessary. What chance do you think you have? None, I tell you. None at all.’
‘The nomads won’t be expecting us. If we run the gauntlet, will we be safe?’
Vasili shrugged. ‘Yes, provided you stay on the river and camp on islands. At last you will come to the island of St Aitherios in the mouth of the river. And there, dear brother, you will find that all your efforts have been wasted.’
‘How so?’
‘Only small boats can negotiate the great portage; only a large ship can cross the Black Sea. At this time of the year, you won’t find any merchant vessels at the mouth of the Dnieper. The estuary will be deserted.’ Vasili leaned back. ‘There. I’ve sketched your prospects. Are you still determined to risk it?’
‘Hero once told me that a journey half-finished is like a story half-told. We’ll go on to the end, wherever we find it.’
Vasili threw back his head and laughed. ‘My friend, I hope that if you reach your goal, you find a bard worthy to immortalise your adventures.’
Vallon saw that the company had eaten themselves into a stupor, some of them yawning openly. ‘Sir, forgive our lack of manners, but my companions are still weary and your splendid hospitality has overwhelmed them. If you would permit …’
Vasili rose at once. ‘Let them sleep. Yes, after food and drink, the balm of sleep.’
The company climbed to their feet and bowed while Vallon thanked their host again for his largesse.
Vasili wafted a hand. ‘The pleasure is all mine. Perhaps you would favour me with a word in private.’
‘Certainly. My Norse is poor. Can I bring someone who …?’
‘Of course.’
Vallon nodded at Wayland. Vasili ushered them into a chamber glazed with mica windows. He showed his guests to a bench padded with furs, spoke to his steward, then took up a seat opposite.
‘Since I haven’t curbed your wanderlust, I’d like to give you a favourable wind. First, I’ll draft a letter of introduction that will open doors for you in Kiev. My steward will help you find suitable boats and I’ll provide you with the guide I employ for my own expeditions. Oleg knows every inch of the portage and the river-men who’ll take you across it. They’re honest and willing toilers. If you wish, you can cross the portage humming songs and with your thumbs tucked into your belt.’
‘I’m obliged. Naturally, we’ll pay.’
Vasili waved away the offer. ‘Oleg is my own man and I’ll bear his expense. He’ll make sure that the porters charge a fair price.’ Vasili’s cupbearer entered with an enamelled tray bearing a glass carafe and three silver beakers. ‘Wine from the Greeks. I hope your physician will allow you the indulgence.’
Vallon sniffed the purple liquor appreciatively. Wayland wrinkled his nose. Vallon sipped and felt the spirit suffuse him with warmth. He sensed that Vasili had left something unsaid.
‘If there’s anything we can do in return …’
‘Nothing. Trade is the lifeblood of Lord Novgorod the Great. Tell your merchant adventurers of the generous reception they can expect.’ Vasili drank and then paused in afterthought. ‘There is one small favour. I have some documents that I need to send to Kiev. With winter coming, I thought I’d have to wait until next year, but since you’re determined to go, perhaps you wouldn’t mind …’
‘Not at all. Excuse me a moment.’ Smiling, Vallon spoke to Wayland in French. ‘Stop scowling.’ Vallon transferred the smile to Vasili. ‘He hasn’t drunk wine before. I was telling him not to let it go to his head.’
Vasili’s gaze dwelt briefly on Wayland before returning to Vallon. ‘Honoured friend, I must make one last attempt to dissuade you from your course. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you. Can’t I persuade you to stay in Novgorod and put your affairs in my hands?’
‘We’ll leave as soon as we can find boats. As I said, the falcons aren’t for sale, but if you’re interested in purchasing some of our other goods …’
Vasili fluttered his fingers. ‘I’m always willing to help a friend. If you want, I’ll take the walrus ivory and sulphur off your hands. I’ll send my steward over tomorrow. Now, I won’t keep you from your bed a moment longer.’
Rising from his chaise, Vasili escorted his two guests as far as the compound gate. ‘Goodnight, dear friend. Think about what I’ve said.’
The gate shut behind them. They walked in drowsy silence through the empty streets. The cathedral bell rang out with chimes that sounded exotic to Vallon’s ear.
‘You displayed the manners of a churl,’ he said.
‘I don’t trust him.’
Vallon stopped. ‘If a man excites your suspicion, you keep your doubts hidden.’ He resumed walking. ‘Why don’t you trust him?’
‘I don’t understand why he’s buttering us up.’
‘It’s true that Novgorod lives by trade, and a sumptuous meal is a small price to pay for good will. Also, even with Richard’s bargaining our new clothes didn’t come cheap.’
‘When we arrived at Novgorod, Vasili’s steward wanted to buy the falcons. His lord expressed the same interest tonight. Earlier today I made some enquiries. In Rus a female slave sells for one nogata. That’s about twenty pennies. Guess how much a gyrfalcon fetches.’
‘Twice as much? Five times?’
‘One gyrfalcon could buy twenty slaves. With the silver we’d earn by selling them, we could buy enough slaves to carry us piggyback to Byzantium.’
‘Perhaps that says more about the cheapness of lives in Rus than the value of gyrfalcons. Anyway, it proves nothing. Vasili made it clear that he would give us a good price for the falcons.’
‘I was watching him. I could see him calculating. He realised that we wouldn’t sell them no matter how much he offered, but he’s still determined to have them.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Ask yourself why Vasili should provide us with his own guide.’
‘As a favour for us carrying his letters.’
‘He tells us we’ll never survive the journey and then entrusts letters to us. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Perhaps they’re not particularly important. Look, you’re forgetting that he did everything to dissuade us from making the journey.’
‘He knows we’re committed. What made my ears prick up was when he said that beyond Novgorod territory we’d find ourselves in no-man’s land where our disappearance wouldn’t be noticed. And that story about the sorcerer prince …’
‘You’re doing an excellent job of spoiling my evening.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that … I don’t know … Something’s not right.’
They’d reached the gate of their lodgings. Vallon jangled the bell and turned to Wayland. ‘If you’ve got an itch, I’d be foolish to ignore it.’ He couldn’t keep from yawning. ‘But right now, all I can think of is bed.’