Tim Severin - Sworn Brother

'Will the memoriales want to send a reply?' I asked politely.

The civil servant curled his lip. 'The memoriales,' he said, 'are the secretaries of the imperial records department. They will study the document and decide if the letter should be placed on file or if it merits onward transmission to the charturalius —' he saw my puzzlement - 'the chief clerk. He in turn will decide whether it should be forwarded to the office of the dromos, the foreign minister, or to the basilikoi, who heads the office of special emissaries. In either case it will require the secretariat's approval and, of course, the consent of the minister himself, before the matter of a response is brought forward for consideration. ' His reply convinced me that my duty towards ibn Hauk had been amply discharged. His letter would be mired in the imperial bureaucracy for months.

'Perhaps you could tell me where I might find the Varangians,' I ventured.

The secretary raised a disdainful eyebrow at my antiquated Greek.

'The Varangians,' I repeated. 'The imperial guardsmen.'

There was a pause as he deliberated over my question, it was as if he was smelling a bad odour. 'Oh, you mean the emperor's wineskins,' he answered. 'That drunken lot of barbarians. I haven't the least idea. You'd better ask someone else.' It was quite plain that he knew the answer to my question, but was not prepared to help.

I had better luck with a passer-by in the street. 'Follow this main avenue,' he said, 'past the porticos and arcades of shops until you come to the Milion — that's a pillar with a heavy iron chain round the base. There's a dome over it, held up on four columns, rather like an upside-down soup bowl. You can't miss it. It's where all the official measurements for distances in the empire start from. Go past the Milion and take the first right. In front of you you'll see a large building, looks like a prison, which is not surprising because that is what it used to be. That's now the barracks for the imperial guard. Ask for the Numera if you get lost.'

I followed his directions. It seemed natural to seek out the Varangians. I knew no one in this immense city. In my purse I had a few silver coins left over from ibn Hauk's generosity, but they would soon be spent. The only northerners whom I knew for certain lived in Miklagard were the soldiers of the emperor's bodyguard. They came from Denmark, Norway, Sweden and some from England. Many, like Ivarr's father, had once served in Kiev before deciding to come on to Constantinople and apply to join the imperial bodyguard. It occurred to me that I might even ask if I could join. After all, I had served with the Jomsvikings.

My scheme, had I known it, was as clumsy and whimsical as my knowledge of spoken Greek, but even in the city of churches Odinn still watched over me.

As I reached the Numera, a man emerged from the doorway to the barracks and started to walk across the large square away from me. He was obviously a guardsman. His height and breadth of shoulder made that much clear. He was a head taller than the majority of the citizens around him. They were small and neat, dark haired and olive skinned, and dressed in the typical Greek costume, loose shirt and trousers for the men, long flowing gowns and veils for the women. By contrast, the guardsman was wearing a tunic of red, and I could see the hilt of a heavy sword hanging from his right shoulder. I noticed too that his long blond hair hung in three plaits down his neck. I was staring at the back of his head as he moved through the crowd, when I recognised something about him. It was the way he walked. He moved like a ship rolling and cresting over the swell of the sea. The faster-moving civilians had to step aside to get past him. They were like a river flowing around a rock. Then I remembered where I had seen that gait before. There was only one man that tall, who walked in that measured way - Grettir's half-brother, Thorstein Galleon.

I broke into a run and chased after him. The coincidence seemed so far-fetched that I did not yet dare say a prayer of thanks to Odinn in case I was deluded. I was still wearing an

Arab gown that ibn Hauk had given me and to the pedestrians I must have looked a strange sight indeed, a fair-haired barbarian in a flapping cotton robe pushing rudely through the crowd in pursuit of one of the imperial guard. 'Thorstein!' I shouted.

He stopped, and turned. I saw his face and knew I would make a sacrifice to Odinn in gratitude.

'Thorstein!' I repeated, coming closer. 'It's me Thorgils, Thorgils Leifsson. I haven't seen you since Grettir and I were at your farmhouse in Tonsberg, on our way to Iceland.'

For a moment Thorstein looked puzzled. My Arab dress must have confused him, and my face was tanned by the sun. 'By Thor and his goats,' he rumbled, 'it is indeed Thorgils. What on earth are you doing here and how did you find your way to Miklagard?' He clapped me on the shoulder and I flinched. His hand had touched the wound left by Froygeir's knife.

'I only arrived today,' I answered. 'It's a long story but I came here through Gardariki and along the rivers with the fur traders.'

'But how is it that you are alone and inside the city itself?' Thorstein asked. 'River traders are not allowed inside the city walls unless they are accompanied by an official.'

'I came as an ambassadorial courier,' I said. 'It's so good to see you.'

'You too,' answered Thorstein heartily. 'I heard that you became Grettir's sworn brother after you got back to Iceland. Which makes a bond between us.' Abruptly he checked himself, as though his initial enthusiasm was misplaced. 'I was on my way to report for duty at the palace guardroom, but there's time for us to go and share a glass of wine in a tavern,' and, strangely, he took me by the arm, and almost pushed me away from the open square and into the shelter of one of the arcades. We turned into the first tavern we came to and he led me to the back of the room. Here he sat us down where we could not be observed from the street.

'I'm sorry to seem so brusque, Thorgils,' he said, 'but no one else knows that Grettir was my half-brother and I want it to stay that way.'

For a moment I was scandalised. I had never imagined that Thorstein would conceal his relationship to Grettir, even though his half-brother had earned such an unsavoury reputation as a brigand and outlaw. But I was misjudging Thorstein badly.

'Thorgils, you remember the promise I made to Grettir at my farm in Norway. On the day that you and he were about to set sail for Iceland?'

'You promised to avenge him if ever he was killed unjustly.'

'That's why I'm here in Constantinople, because of Grettir,' Thorstein went on. His voice had a new intensity. 'I've come here in pursuit of the man who killed him. It's taken a long time to track him down and now I'm very close. In fact I don't want him to know just how close. It's not that I think he will make a run for it, he's come too far for that. What I want is to pick the right moment. When I'm to take my revenge, it won't be a hole-in-the-corner deed. It will be out in the open, something to make men remember.'

'That's exactly what Grettir would have said,' I replied. 'But tell me, how does Thorbjorn Ongul come to be here in Miklagard?'

'So you know it was that one-eyed bastard who caused the deaths of Grettir and Illugi,' said Thorstein. 'That's common knowledge in Iceland but nowhere else. He was condemned to exile by the Althing for employing the help of a black witch to cause Grettir's death. Since then he's taken care to keep out of sight. He went to Norway, then came here to Miklagard, where there's little chance of running into any other Icelanders or being recognised. In fact the other members of the guard know nothing about his background. He applied to the service about a year ago, met the entry requirements, greased a few palms and has established himself as a reliable soldier. That's another reason why I have to strike at the right moment. The regiment won't like it.'