Tim Severin - King's Man

'No, your excellency,' I replied. 'It's not a name that I am familiar with.'

'You soon will be,' the Orphanotrophus replied dryly. 'I have given orders that the foreigners are to be intercepted at the entrance to the straits. They will be escorted to the district of St Mamas on the opposite side of the Golden Horn and held there, well away from the city, pending an investigation of their intentions. That is where you come in. I want to know who they are and why they have come here. If they are Rus, you will understand their language when they speak among themselves, and you seem to be an intelligent man who can make his own judgements and ask the right questions. Afterwards you come back to me and report your impressions in person.'

'Yes, your excellency,' I answered, beginning to think that I had been unnecessarily suspicious of John. 'When do you expect the foreigners to arrive?'

'In three days' time,' he answered. 'Now go and report to my chief chartularius. He will write out your instructions. Officially you will be serving as escort to the deputation from the office of dromos.' He paused, and then said something which - as intended - reminded me of the words I had used when delivering the message that lured me from my duty to guard the Basileus. 'As I'm sure you are aware,' the eunuch continued softly, 'the logothete of the dromos is responsible for foreign relations, secret intelligence and embassies, as well as the imperial postal system -a curious mixture, don't you think? — while the dekanos are the palace messengers. So the men from the dromos will manage the official contact with these five hundred barbarians, but you are my eyes and ears. I want you to eavesdrop on the foreigners for me.'

My interview was at an end. I looked into the hooded eyes of the Orphanotrophus and, with numbing certainty, understood why he was so confident that I would act as his spy, even against my own people. It was just as Pelagia had said: it did not matter whether John had plotted to put his brother Michael on the throne. Basileus Romanus had died during my watch, when I had been responsible for his safety. John had witnessed my dereliction of duty and he could bring me to account at any time he chose. I was at his mercy. Yet he was too subtle to mention that fact outright. He preferred to rely on my fear and make me his creature.

So it was that three days after my interview with the Basileus's sinister brother I was aboard a small ferry boat, being rowed across the choppy waters of the Golden Horn towards the landing place at Mamas. With me were two dour-looking officials from the secretariat of the dromos. To judge from their manner, they thought it was a vile imposition to be plucked from the calm shelter of their offices and sent to interview a gang of uncouth barbarians from the north. One of the officials wrinkled his nose with distaste as he clutched his robe so that the hem did not get soaked by the slop of bilge water. Since they were on official business, both he and his colleague were wearing formal costumes which denoted their bureaucratic rank. His cloak had a green border, so I knew he was a high-ranking civil servant, and I wondered whether he too spoke Norse. The office of the dromos maintained a college of trained interpreters and it would be typical of the Orphanotrophus to send not one but two spies so he could cross-check their impressions.

As our little boat approached the landing stage, the sight of the moored flotilla of a dozen or so boats suddenly made me homesick for the northern lands. The monocylon, as John had called them, were a smaller version of the curved seagoing ships I had known all my life. The boats docked at Mamas were less well built than genuine ocean-going vessels, but they were handy enough for short sea crossings and very different from the tubby hulls favoured by the Greeks. My nostalgia grew as I scrambled up on to the quay and walked across the open ground where the foreigners had been given permission to pitch their tents. There were piles of flax sails, wooden kegs, spars, coils of rope, anchors and other ship's gear, all so familiar to me. I could smell the tar on the ropes and the grease on the leather straps of the steering blades. Even the stacked oars were of the same pattern I had used when I was a youngster.

The encampment, with its neat rows of tents, had a vaguely military feeling, and I understood why the imperial spies had reported their unease. This large assembly of travellers had definitely not come to Constantinople to buy and sell goods. The men strolling around the camp, hovering over the cooking pots, or simply lazing in the sun, all had the look of warriors. They were big and self-confident and they were Norse — that was sure. They had the blond colouring of the Norse, the long hair and luxuriant beards, and they wore the characteristic heavy leggings and cross-garters, though their tunics were a motley of colours and cloths, ranging from linen to leather. One or two even wore sheepskin jerkins, which were highly unsuitable in Constantinople's sunshine.

I scarcely attracted a glance from these burly strangers as I headed for a tent, larger than the others, which stood apart. I recognised it at once as a command tent, and did not need to be told that this was where we would find the leaders of this unknown group.

Gesturing to my two companions that they should wait outside, I pushed open the door flap. As I entered, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the subdued light. Around a trestle table stood a group of four or five men. Observing that I was a stranger and dressed in a foreign uniform — for I wore the guards' scarlet tunic - they waited impassively for me to explain what I wanted. But one man, thickset, with bushy grey hair and a heavy beard, reacted differently. He stared hard at me.

There was an awkward silence while I wondered how I should introduce myself, and what tone I should adopt. Then the silence was broken. 'Thorgils Leifsson! By all the Gods, if it isn't Thorgils!' the grey-haired man exclaimed loudly. He spoke with an unmistakable Icelandic accent, and I could even pick out which region of Iceland he came from: he was a man from the west fjords. His voice also gave me the clue to his identity, and a moment later I placed him. He was Halldor Snorrason, fifth son of Snorri Godi, with whose family I had stayed in Iceland as a young man. In fact, Halldor's sister Hallbera had been the first girl with whom I had fallen in love, and Halldor's father had played a crucial role in my teenage years.

"What's that fancy uniform you're wearing?' Halldor asked, striding across to clap me on the shoulder. 'The last we heard, you were headed off into Permia to buy furs from the ski-runners. Don't tell me that Thorgils, former associate of that outlaw Grettir the Strong, is now a member of the imperial Life Guard.'

'Yes, I'll have been a guardsman three years this autumn,' I said, and here I dropped my voice in case the men from the dromos could hear me through the tent cloth. 'I've been sent to find out what you and your comrades are doing, and why you have come to Constantinople.'

'Oh, that's no secret. You can go back to your chief and tell him that we've come to offer our services as fighting men to the Emperor of Miklagard,' Halldor replied cheerfully. 'We hear that he pays very well and the chances of loot are excellent. We want to go home as rich men!' He laughed.

I had to smile at his enthusiasm. 'What? All of you want to join the Life Guard? I'm told that there are five hundred of you. A recruit only joins when there is a vacancy and there is a long waiting list.'

'No,' said Halldor. 'We don't want to join the guard. Our plan is to stay together as a single fighting unit.'

The idea was so unexpected that for a moment I was silenced. Norsemen did not usually form themselves into disciplined warrior brigades, particularly when they were roving freebooters hoping to loot and plunder. They were far too independent-minded. There had to be another factor.