Maidensong (29 page)

What of me? What of us?
Bjorn wanted to shake her, wanted to rail at her, but he knew it was a losing argument. She was convinced this was the only path through the snare Gunnar had set for her, and her resolve was set in stone. Whether these few days of lov
ing her were a gift from the gods or a curse to bedevil
him for the rest of his life he wasn’t sure. But he would
take this woman on whatever terms she gave him.

“One way or another, I will not let Ketil go to the
trees of Uppsala,” he promised. “Now upon our love,
Rika, swear to me that you will tell me if there is a
babe. It must change everything if you bear a child of
mine.”

“I swear it. I will tell you when I know.”

“Then with everything I am, I pray that we have made a new little life together.” Bjorn kissed her softly. He stood and walked wearily to the side of island closest to the noise of the approaching
Valkyrie.
He
cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to his
uncle.

“I pray so, too,” Rika whispered behind him.

 
The wonder of finding Rika and Bjorn alive was almost more than the rest of the party could accept.
Even though Ornolf saw what looked like his nephew
on the island and heard his voice, he suspected at first
that he was being visited by the ghosts of Bjorn and
the skald. Once the pair swam across the Dnieper to
join the travelers, it took a few days for even Jorand
not to flinch each time his captain laid a hand on his
shoulder, as if he feared that it was Bjorn’s shade, not
the man himself, come to drag Jorand back to Hel with him.

Torvald was just thankful to see Rika again, whether
it was really her or not, even though she still treated
him coolly. Only Helge professed not to be surprised.

“After all,” the old woman said, “this isn’t the first time she’s cheated the water.”

Helge knew Rika and Bjorn were real enough, but she did notice that her young mistress and the
jarl’s
brother were much changed toward each other since
their ride down Aeifor. Unlike the earlier part of the
trip when she often caught them making calf’s eyes
across the fire, now Rika and Bjorn studiously avoided
each other.

Just as well,
the old woman thought. Nothing good
could come of wanting what a body couldn’t have.

 
Bjorn had told Rika about the great city of Miklagard,
but nothing prepared her for
her first sight of the capital of the Byzantine Empire. He'd told her of the Hagia Sophia, Church of Holy
Wisdom, with its amazing dome, but she never really believed such a marvel could exist.

Until she saw it. The early morning sun glinted on
the curve of white marble. Its gigantic vault hovered above a circle of arched windows as if it had descended intact from the heavens and didn't deign to go
all the way down to the level of mere men.

Situated on a jutting peninsula overlooking the Sea of Marmara, the great city flowed over seven hills. It
was a grand echo of Rome, whose glory its founder,
Constantine, sought to replace. The horizon was spiked with countless spires and pillars, each topped
with a statue. Rika thought it looked like a village of
giants, frozen and mounted on tall columns.

As they turned north from the Bosporus into the
Golden Horn, the deepwater port of Constantinople,
Bjorn came up to stand beside her in the prow of the
Valkyrie.
He tried to make the maneuver seem casual,
but his heart pounded just standing beside her. When
she wobbled a bit in the swaying craft, he put a hand
to the small of her back to steady her. She leaned ever
so slightly into his touch.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“It’s overwhelming,” Rika said, not letting
her gaze linger on him for more than the briefest
flicker. “It’s a city of such obvious richness. Doesn’t
that mark it for raids?”

“Miklagard is well defended.” He
gestured toward the high seawall. “On
the land side, there’s a ring of three walls, each one
nearly twenty times higher than a man’s head and so thick, no battering ram ever devised could punch through them.”

The pale marble buildings glowed
in the sunlight and she raised a hand to shade her eyes. They slid past the imperial ship
yards, where the emperor’s fleet was constantly expanded to the accompaniment of pounding hammers
and rasping adzes.

“What if an attack came from the sea?” she asked.

“You’ve seen the seawall. It’s heavily guarded, so a pirate would have to think twice before trying to scale it.” Bjorn drummed his fingers absently on the
Valkyrie’s
pointed prow. The riches of Miklagard
called to his Viking blood, singing a tantalizing tune of
seduction. How could the city’s defenses be breeched? It was a conundrum he’d given some thought
already. “The harbor is guarded by a chain that the soldiers
pull tight across the opening at the water level. They
think they can keep anyone from sneaking in with that.”

“What about sneaking out?” she asked, her voice cautiously neutral.

“Even with the chain up, I could get us out,”
he said with certainty. There’d been no opportunity for them to speak privately since rejoining the rest of the party at the base of
Aeifor
.
Each day, Bjorn had covertly watched Rika, wondering whether she carried
his babe in her flat belly. Hoping. He’d had no chance
to ask if she knew yet.

“Do we need to get out?” He willed her to understand his true question.

Rika gazed at him squarely. Moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes. There was
a slight quiver in her chin, and he knew. There was no child. She blinked hard and looked away from him.

“
No,” she said softly. “We don’t need to get out.”

*
  
*
 
 
*

 
As splendid as the city appeared, Rika was totally un
prepared for its stench. Down by the harbor, she ex
pected the reek of fish slime, but as they ascended the steep lane into a tangle of back streets, her nostrils were assaulted by the odor of rotting vegetables, trash-
strewn doorways and raw sewage percolating from
cracks in the terra-cotta pipes that carried most of the refuse out to the sea. The crowded tenements bulged
with shabby occupants.

As they made their way upward, the character of the
narrow lanes changed. No garbage littered their path
way in this newer neighborhood. The wholesome
smells of baking bread, rich spices Rika couldn’t iden
tify, and heady incense greeted them. Merchants offering ripe figs and green olives, and carts filled with huge melons and a wild assortment of unfamiliar fruits lined the streets.

Bjorn stopped by a stall, haggling with the proprietor for a respectable time before he bought a loaf of
soft, sweet bread. He ripped it into fairly equal por
tions and gave some to each member of the group. Af
ter the rough fare of the journey, the bread seemed like it had fallen from the table of the gods.

The merchants hawking their wares called out in a
myriad of tongues—Arabic, Latin, Frankish, Persian, Mongolian and, of course, Greek. Rika couldn’t help staring when she passed the African merchants, men as black as ebony in wildly colorful robes. She
might’ve felt she was being rude, except for the way the buyers and sellers in the market stared frankly at
her party as well. The Northmen dwarfed the people of Miklagard and even she looked down on many of the
men scurrying through the crooked lanes.

“So many people.” Wide-eyed, Rika made a slow turn in the street.

“About a quarter of a million,” Ornolf said. “And a
full fifty thousand of them come from somewhere else.
The whole world comes to Miklagard, my children.”
Uncle Ornolf spread his arms wide and breathed
deeply. Rika suspected that part of him always longed for the wild beauty of the fjords, but another part rev
eled in this great city where so many lives met at its crossroads.

Rika thought she could pick out the natives of the
city from the visiting merchants by their dress, Greek-style
pallas.
Most of the Byzantine men had neatly
trimmed beards, but a few sported smooth faces. Not
just clean shaven like Bjorn, but as hairless and soft-
looking as her own. And their voices were pitched in
her register as well.

“Eunuchs,” Ornolf said when he saw her puzzled
frown. “The third sex, the Byzantines call them.
Neutered males.” His lip curled derisively. “Hardly a
household of repute has less than a dozen of them run
ning it. We’ll see some at Farouk’s house. He uses them to guard his harem. Can’t see why a man would allow
himself to be mutilated.”

“I don’t imagine they do allow it,” Torvald said.

“No, the poor wretches don’t do the deciding,” Ornolf admitted. “Usually it’s the parents. They have
the younger son castrated so he can serve in a govern
ment post or with an influential family. I guess I never told you, Bjorn, but I got a very tempting offer for you
from an old Greek courtier when I brought you down
here as a boy. Once he found out you were a second son, he became most insistent.”

Bjorn glowered at him.

 
“He thought you a very pretty little fellow.” Ornolf didn’t bother to hide his smirk. “But I didn’t
think he’d want a knife in his ribs, so I decided not to
sell you to him.”

“A wise decision, Uncle.” Bjorn jabbed
Ornolf’s shoulder with his fist. “Otherwise, it might’ve
been your ribs with a knife in them."

Ornolf slapped Bjorn’s back approvingly, but so fiercely the blows would’ve knocked most of the Byzantines flat.

They continued upward, passing under the two-
story-high aqueduct that brought fresh water to Mikla
gard from the mountainous region beyond the walls.
Wide, marble-paved thoroughfares opened onto colonnaded forums and ornate gardens with splashing foun
tains. Several small carriages clattered on the stone
paving, and the deep gong of bells from the city’s many
churches resounded off the palaces and government buildings.

In Rika’s wildest imaginings, not even Asgard was
as splendid as the imperial section of this city. But for all
its beauty, Rika sensed the cold grip of treachery in
the very air around her. She shook herself to ward off the fanciful notion.

Uncle Ornolf led them to the new hostel for visitors, known as the Xenon of Theophilos, to rest and refresh
themselves. Later in the afternoon they visited the Zeuxippos, the opulent public baths next to the palace
of the emperor.

“Can’t meet your bridegroom looking like a travel-stained bumpkin,” Ornolf told Rika.

So with dread curling in her belly, Rika bathed in
perfumed waters and donned the best tunic and kyrtle
Gunnar had sent with her. Helge fretted over Rika’s
hair, which still only curled to her chin.

She really didn’t care what her prospective husband thought of
her. Her only concern was how to make it through the
next few moments without running to Bjorn and beg
ging him to carry her away.

When she came out of the bathhouse and saw him,
her knees nearly buckled. He was freshly bathed and
shaved, but his dark eyes looked haunted. She forced
herself to look away. He was already burned on her
heart, the rumbling timbre of his voice, the feel of his
hard muscles, the smell of his skin, the taste of his
kiss. She only need close her eyes to summon him, but
looking at him now could wreck all.

Ornolf led the way to the Arab’s home. Bjorn and Jorand flanked Rika, with Torvald and Helge forming
the rear guard. Rika sensed tension in Bjorn’s body be
side her. She felt his agony. It was in exact harmony
with her own.

As they walked through the streets, Rika saw more
than one dark-eyed woman gazing long and hard at the
tall Northmen. From her peripheral vision she noted
that Bjorn ignored them, looking straight ahead. But
Rika knew he wouldn’t be alone for long in this city. In
time he’d surely forget her. The knowledge made her
stomach lurch.

She glanced sideways and saw a muscle tick in his
cheek. Rika recognized it as barely controlled fury.
Why should he be angry at her? Didn’t he realize she
was only doing this for his sake? She no longer
doubted he could keep Ketil safe, but by disrupting the
alliance her marriage cemented for Sogna, Bjorn would
be branded an oath-breaker, a man without honor.