“Yes, eparch.”
“He said the ewer would soon be returned. I wonder where they will find it—in the kitchen, or in the stable?”
“Eparch?”
“He is dirty with this. I know it.” Turning to me, he said, “Thank you, Aidan. You may go. I am tired. I will lie down now.”
He rose wearily from his chair and walked to the door, paused, and said, “Can I trust you, Aidan?”
“I hope you can,” I told him.
“Then I will tell you something,” he said, motioning me to him. As I stepped near, he placed a fatherly hand on my shoulder—the gesture reminded me of Abbot Fraoch. Putting his mouth to my ear, he whispered, “Beware the komes, Aidan. He has marked you for an enemy.”
This did in no way surprise me. Still, I said, “I believe you, eparch. But why should he think me an enemy?”
He offered a thin, mirthless smile. “Because you have penetrated his duplicity. Discovery is what he fears most of all; it is the one thing treachery cannot abide.”
40
The golden ewer came to light a day or two later—found, they said, in a ditch outside the city walls. It was undamaged, for the most part, save for a dent in one side, and a bent handle which looked as if someone had tried to pull it off. King Harald growled when I told him of the treasure’s recovery. “It was dropped where they knew to find it,” he snarled.
The jarl had taken a sour view of the event from the beginning. He held that the theft impugned his honour and that of his men, and insisted the raid had been created solely to disgrace him. “There were no thieves,” he argued. “Once the amir arrived, no one entered or left the hall. No one came near.”
“Perhaps the thieves were already inside the house,” I suggested. “Perhaps they were hiding.”
“Heya,” he agreed. “The thieves were inside the house. That is so. On Thor’s beard, the jar was never stolen.”
“But I saw it. I was there. They rushed in and took it.”
“Nay,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “Did you ever hear of a thief parting with such a treasure once he had it in his hands? I never did.”
“Maybe they feared pursuit,” I suggested. “They hid it in the ditch and hoped to come back for it later—when no one was looking.”
The barbarian king shook his head firmly. “The time when no one was looking was when they threw it away,” the jarl replied, and I was forced to admit that in matters of stolen treasure, his knowledge and experience were far superior to mine.
Gunnar and Tolar had their own views. “Who profited from the theft?” Gunnar asked pointedly. “Find that man, and you have caught the thief.”
In the event, those responsible for the supposed raid were never found; and, since the ewer was recovered, the search was halted and speculation ceased. Interest turned instead to the peace talks between the eparch and the amir which commenced a few days later. They alternated meeting places, sometimes within the city, and sometimes in the Arab camp. Sometimes the magister and certain prominent citizens took part, sometimes various merchants from Constantinople, and sometimes only the eparch and amir alone but for their interpreters and advisors. I also attended a few of these discussions, but found them exceedingly dull.
Winter deepened around us all the while; the days, though chill and often damp, were never cold. Nor did it snow, except for the high tops of the mountains far to the north and east. Sometimes, a southern wind would stir the leafless branches and the day would be almost warm. Even so, with the approach of the Christ Mass, Trebizond began to shake off some of its seasonal lethargy. I noticed a steady stream of newcomers arriving in the city. When I remarked on this to one of the merchants—who, by virtue of having traded gemstone and marble in Trebizond for twenty years, was sometimes included in the eparch’s delegation—I was told this was but a trickle that would eventually become a flood.
“Just wait and see,” he said. “By Saint Euthemius’s Day there will not be an empty room in the whole city. Every doorway will become a bed. You watch. It is true.”
We at the abbey, like every holy community, honoured certain saints with feasts on particular days: Saint Colum Cille’s day was special to the monks at Kells. And though there were many eastern saints unknown in the west, it still seemed odd that any day should be more highly regarded than the Christ’s Day Mass. “I had no idea the saint’s day was so well observed here,” I told him.
“Some come for Euthemius’s feast, I suppose,” he allowed with a shrug of indifference. “But most come for the fair.”
I had heard this word before, of course, but his use of it was strange. Upon inquiring, I was told that a fair was a gathering, not unlike a market, where people might buy and sell, and also enjoy special entertainments and diversions over many days. “The Trebizond fair is well known,” the merchant assured me. “People come from the far ends of the empire and beyond just to attend—Christian and pagan alike, everyone comes.”
He spoke the truth with no exaggeration. For the Christ Mass came and went, strictly observed, yes, but stiffly and with very little warmth. I did attend a Mass, out of curiosity rather than desire, and I could not find it in my heart to pray. The worship seemed perfunctory to me; even the singing lacked interest. All in all, I thought it a dismal observance—though, perhaps my own feelings of desolation coloured my perception; I was still bitterly disappointed with God, and in no fit mood to regard the birth of his son, to whom I was no longer speaking.
Deep in my innermost soul, I must have entertained the notion that a miracle of reconciliation would take place for me during that most holy and joyous observance: that my Lord Christ might look down in pity and mercy upon me, take hold of me, embrace me as his son, and raise me up once more to my proper place in the Great Kingdom. But no. God, ever aloof, remained hidden in his obscure Heaven, silent and uncaring as ever. Or, if he did favour mankind with the light of his presence, it was upon some other corner of the earth that he shone. The glad tidings of great joy were, I suppose, bestowed upon others.
The only glimmer of anything that even faintly resembled happiness or good will came from the barbarians. The Sea Wolves made a noble and determined attempt at a celebration: jultide, they called it—a seven-day orgy of eating and drinking and fighting. They contrived to brew their öl, and procured six sheep and four bullocks for roasting, though they would rather have had an ox or two and some swine. As there was nothing to prevent me, I joined them for part of their festivities at the quay where they had taken over a sizeable portion of the wharf, having erected large tent-like shelters made from their ship’s sails.
“I am missing Karin’s rökt skinka,” Gunnar confided three or four days into their celebration. “And her lütfisk and tunnbrod—I miss those also. My Karin makes the best lütfisk. Is this not so, Tolar?”
Tolar nodded sagely, and stared into his cup. “The glögg is good.”
“True,” agreed Gunnar solemnly, then confided: “I have never had glögg before, Aeddan. In Skania, only very wealthy men may drink it as it is made with wine, you know. But maybe we are all very wealthy now, heya?”
“Heya,” Tolar replied, then thought perhaps he had said too much, for he rose abruptly and went to find a jar to refill the cups.
Thorkel and two other Danes staggered by just then and settled at the table with us. “Aeddan, old Sea Wolf!” cried Thorkel. “I have not seen you for fifty years!”
“You saw me yesterday, Thorkel,” I told him.
“Ah, yes, so I did.” He smiled happily. “This is the best jul ever, but for the snow.” He paused, his smile fading in a sudden upsurge of melancholy. “It is a pity about the snow.” He shook his head sadly. “I miss that.”
“Not the cold, however,” amended Gunnar.
Tolar, just returning, overheard this remark and shook his head solemnly. He did not miss the cold, either.
“Nay, not the cold,” agreed Thorkel wistfully. “You can keep the cold.” He looked at me blearily, guzzled hi
s drink, and asked, “What do the folk of Irlandia do for the jultide?”
Though I had no wish to discuss it with drunken barbarians, that is exactly what I did. “We have no jul, but celebrate the Christ Mass instead,” I told them, and went on to explain something about it.
“And is this god the same as the one hanging on the gallows?” wondered the pilot. “The one Gunnar is always jabbering about?”
“It is called a cross,” Gunnar corrected him. “And it is the same god. Is that not so, Aeddan?”
“That is so,” I agreed. “He is Jesu, called the Christ.”
“How do you know so much about this?” inquired one of the Danes with Thorkel.
“Aeddan here was a priest of this god, and he was my slave before Jarl Harald got him. He knows all there is to know of such matters.”
“Beware, Gunnar,” warned the other Dane, “you may become a priest yourself if you are not careful.”
“Ha!” cried Gunnar in derision. “But I will tell you one thing: this Christ of Aeddan’s helped me win the bread wager against Hnefi and the others. Ten pieces of silver, if you will remember.”
The others were much impressed with Gunnar’s revelation, and demanded to know whether this Jesu would help them win wagers, too.
“No, he will not,” I told them, bitterness welling up in me like venom. “He does not help anyone! He does what he pleases and heeds nothing of men or their prayers. He is a selfish, spiteful god, demanding everything and giving nothing. He is fickle and inconstant. Sooner pray to your rune stones—at least a stone will listen.”
Stunned by my sudden and heated outburst, my companions stared at me for a moment. Then Gunnar, a slow, sly, suspicious smile spreading across his broad face, said, “You are only saying that because you want to keep this god to yourself. You do not want us to know about him. That way he is yours alone.”
They all agreed that this accounted for my sudden contrariness regarding this Christ, and determined among themselves that whatever I said, the opposite must be true.
“You cannot make fools of us so easily,” Thorkel declared. “We can clearly see there is more here than you are telling.” Lifting a hand to the city behind us, he pointed to one of the crosses atop the largest of the churches. “Men do not raise worship halls to gods who do nothing for them. I think you are trying to lead us astray. But we are too smart for you.”
The discussion was curtailed just then when a wrestling match began. Two big Danes stripped off their clothes, laved olive oil over themselves and began to grapple with one another on the quay. A crowd quickly gathered around them, and wagers were made. The fight, however, settled into a rather lacklustre and disappointing tussle. The spectators were on the point of abandoning interest in the contest when one of the wrestlers, stepping too near the edge of the quay, fell into the harbour. His opponent, seeing his chance, dived into the water after him, seized him, thrust him under the surface and held him there until the unfortunate wretch collapsed from lack of air. He would have drowned if the other had not let him up when he fainted.
This produced a most remarkable consequence, for no sooner had the first wrestler been hauled from the water than another Sea Wolf threw off his clothes and jumped into the harbour. He, too, was bested and was soon dragged unconscious from the cold sea. The next to enter the fray fared better. He bested the first opponent and the next three in turn, but fell to the fourth, who then took on all comers.
This water wrestling proved enormously popular with everyone. Even King Harald tried his luck, and lasted through three opponents before succumbing. With each new contest, wagers were laid and money changed hands. The sport continued for two days before they had had enough, and everyone agreed that it was one of the best jultide games they had played.
Thus, we wintered in Trebizond. Gradually, the days began to lengthen and the weather to turn. When at last the sea roads opened once more, the ships began arriving from other parts of the empire. The eparch and amir looked to the conclusion of their talks, and the merchants to returning home. Meanwhile, streaming into the city by all and every means, came a veritable torrent of people, from as many tribes and nations as could be counted.
The city became an enormous marketplace, with the streets as stables; people offered sleeping places in their houses and were paid handsomely for their hospitality. Harlots also arrived in numbers to ply their particular trade among the populace of fair-goers. Consequently, the sight of men and women copulating in doorways and behind market stalls became wearily commonplace as the pursuit of this occupation succeeded.
The forum was transformed into a welter of people, many of whom congregated in clumps around certain of their favourites, be it teacher, seer, or soothsayer. There were Magi from the East whose knowledge of the stars and their movements was vast as the heavens themselves. They held forth with their observations and argued among themselves for supremacy. They also provided those seeking their counsel with close-studied readings of the starcourses and other celestial signs, by which many set great store. Apparently, one solitary consultation was enough to produce a reliable reading of an individual’s future.
This fascinated me, I freely confess, for my own dreams have shown me that there are ways of knowing and seeing which are beyond the common abilities of most people. Also, I was curious to know what another might make of my circumstance. Condemned to a death I did not die, slave to a barbarian king, and a spy for the emperor, could my life be ordained by heaven and written in the stars?
When curiosity overcame better judgement, I plucked up my courage and entered into one of these consultations with a wizened old Arab named Amet, whose face was so wrinkled and dark it looked like a dried fig. He was, he said, a Magus of the Umayids who had learned his craft after long and arduous tutelage in Baghdat and Athens.
“All praise to Allah, and to his Glorious Prophet also,” he said in lilting Greek. “I have faithfully served two amirs and a khalifa. Sit with me, my friend. I tell you the truth: I alone have devised a means by which the future is revealed in utmost clarity. You may rely upon my observation—you see! I do not use the word prediction as so many do; for to describe what has been written for anyone to see is not prediction, is not foretelling; it is reading merely—you may rely on my scrutiny with complete confidence. Now you must tell me everything you wish to know.”
We sat down together on cushions in the tent-like stall he had erected beside a column on the forum’s eastern side. I told him I had reason to inquire after my future—not from any desire for personal gain, or even happiness, but from a sense of duty.
“Why duty?” he asked, tilting his head to one side. “You say duty, which implies obedience? Why do you use this word?”
His question caught me up. “I do not know.” After a moment’s thought, I said, “I suppose it is because I have always sought to be an obedient servant.”
“A servant must have a master; who is your master?”
“I am a slave to a king of the Danemen.”
The old Arab dismissed my reply with an impatient gesture. “He is not your master, I believe. He is your excuse merely.”
“Excuse?” I thought his use of the word inept, but was intrigued nonetheless. “I do not understand.”
Amet smiled mysteriously. “You see? I already know a great deal about you and we have only begun speaking to one another. Now perhaps you will tell me the day of your birth.”
I told him, and he asked, “The time of day, what was it? Be as precise as possible; it may be important.”
“But I do not know the precise moment,” I replied.
He clucked his tongue and shook his head at my ignorance of a detail of such momentous significance. “Give me your hand,” he said, and I complied. After a cursory glance at the palm, he turned it over and then released it. “Morning,” he said. “Near dawn, I believe, for the sun had not yet risen.”
“The time-between-times!” I said, as memory came singing back to me over the years. “My
mother always said that I was born in the time-between-times—when night had finished, but day had not yet begun.”
“Yes,” replied Amet, “that would be the hour. The day we have established already.” He raised a bony finger towards the roof of his tent. “Now we will look to the heavens.”
Though he did not move from his cushion, he nevertheless bestirred himself to great activity. Producing a beaded cloth pouch which he wore on a rope around his neck, the old magus withdrew a disk-like object of shining brass, passed his hand over it reverently, and then, pushing here and lifting there, erected two additional appendages which he deftly adjusted. Raising the object with the aid of a small brass loop, he put his eye to a hole in one of the arms, performed some small, inexplicable manoeuvres, and turned his face to the sky outside the tent.
“It is called an astrolabos,” he told me, lowering the disk, folding the arms and replacing it in the pouch. “To him who knows its secrets, this device reveals wonders. What is your name?”
“I am Aidan,” I told him. “Has your device revealed any wonders about me?”
Placing a fingertip to his lips, he turned to a squat earthen jar employed to hold a number of scrolls. Selecting one of these, he unrolled it and held it before him for a moment. He glanced at me, frowned, threw the scroll aside and selected another. “Aedan,” he said, pronouncing my name like a Greek.
The second scroll apparently met with his approval, for he smiled and said, “You did not tell me you were a seer, Aedan.”
“But I am not a seer!” I protested. Even so, the shock of recognition coursed through me.
“The stars never lie,” he scolded. “Perhaps you are a seer, but have not yet discovered this gift.” Retrieving the first scroll, he studied it once more, only to discard it again in favour of a third which he withdrew from the baked earth jar. “Strange,” he said, “to find a lord who is also a slave. Wisdom leads me to doubt this, but experience has taught me that truth does often run contrary to wisdom.”