Or how about near-public swiving? Behind this two-story building, a walled garden had been built that Ianthe cherished for its privacy and beauty. He liked the privacy, too, especially since they’d made some memorable love there a time or two. The possibility that a customer might walk in on them, though remote, gave an edge to their sexual activity.
“What troubles you, Sidroc? What is it you hesitate to tell me?” she asked, coming up to sit on his lap.
“I am leaving,” he said bluntly.
“Tonight?” She gasped. “You have a new mission?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I mean to leave Byzantium, for good.”
He saw the regret on her face, but no crushing blow of pain. They’d been apart far more than together these past two years.
“I knew our liaison would end eventually, but not this soon.” Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked to stop them from overflowing.
He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head. “Nay, dearling, not tonight. What I should have said is that I am ready to end my Varangian duties. I intend to speak to General Sclerus as soon as possible.”
“You must be careful how you approach him,” she warned, swiping at her eyes.
“I know.”
“My husband had a friend who wanted to resign after ten years of faithful duty so that he could move himself and his wife and children out of the city to the family farm. Instead of rewarding him for his service, the general sent him to a desert outpost where he still is today.” Ianthe’s husband had been a vintner with a small holding in Crete before he died suddenly of heart pains. His greedy kinfolk had pushed her out of the door right after the funeral. Sidroc had not known her then.
“I will be careful . . . as diplomatic as I can be,” he promised, “but what I started to say is that ’tis time to settle on my own lands, probably the Orkneys. Would you want to come with me?” He threw the invitation out there, though he was not sure he wanted Ianthe with him for life, as fond as he was of her.
“Is it cold in the Orkneys?” she asked, pressing a forefinger to her lips, as if she actually contemplated such a move.
“Well, yea, I suppose it is, compared to Byzantium, but warmer than the Norselands where I grew up.”
She sighed deeply. “I appreciate your offer, Sidroc, but this is my home. I wish no other. Besides, you know that I am barren.”
He waved a hand dismissively.
“A man needs sons,” she insisted.
“Not me.” After failing to rescue one small baby, he had no wish for others. Even worse, he’d had time to deliberate these past five years, and he worried that he might treat a child the way his father and his brothers treated their children . . . with numerous thrashings and constant belittling. Mayhap it ran in his blood.
Nay, no children for him.
What a man needed was a good woman to warm his bed furs on a winter’s night, and it mattered not that it be wife or concubine or passing fancy. He did not say that to Ianthe, though, for fear she would take offense.
“So, this will be good-bye for us then?” she asked, tears welling once again in her eyes. “I will miss you sorely, dear one.”
“I am not leaving yet,” he said, and ran a hand along her flank.
“But we must not drag it out, either. Let this be our last night together. We started as friends before we became lovers. We should end as friends as well.”
He wanted to argue with her, but she was right. Prolonging their farewells would be unwise. Oh, there were things to be arranged. Money to be settled on her. Making sure the deed to the jewelry shop was in her name. Renewing the annual trading permit with the powerful eparch, or prefect, of the city, who could make life hard for a single craftswoman, if he chose. Perchance Sidroc should hire a guard to stay with Ianthe for at least a year. That way she would not have to seek another protector, if she did not want to. But those things could wait until the morrow. For now, he had other things on his mind.
“If this is to be our last night together as lovers, I do not want to waste a moment,” he said.
She smiled seductively and slid off his lap, going over to the far wall where she opened a chest and picked out a few items. When she returned, she knelt between his thighs and handed him the scarves.
“Ah, sweetling, I am going to miss you so much,” he said, tipping her chin up to meet his kiss.
“Show me how much,” she purred.
Like a good Viking warrior, he followed orders. In fact, he more than showed her.
And showed her.
And showed her.
And once dawn light crept over the Bosphorus, he showed her again.
Chapter Eight
In the garden of good and tempting . . .
Drifa was up at dawn, ready to begin a day of exploration in the Golden City, followed by her audience with the emperor.
But she had to wait a few hours to begin with her visit to the jewelry maker since she did not want to be pulling Ianthe from her bed. Gods only knew who would be sharing it with her. Well, actually, she knew, but chose not to have that image planted in her brain.
Suffering aleheads from overindulging the night before, all four of her hersirs declined her invitation to take her to visit with Sidroc’s mistress, although Alrek promised to come later . . . once he stopped emptying the contents of his stomach into a chamber pot. Apparently someone had brought several barrels of mead up from the longships and they’d shown their appreciation in the way Viking men loved. A competition to see who could suck up the most brew in the shortest period of time. Men!
So it was with her four guardsmen that Drifa left through the huge bronze Chalke Gate, the main entrance to the Great Palace. Above the gate was an enormous mosaic icon of Christ. The first thing they noticed after passing through was the overpowering scent of flowers.
“ ’Tis the perfumers,” Ivar told her. “The law in Miklagard requires all makers and vendors of scents to be located within a stone’s throw of the palace gates. Can you guess why?”
She looked at the dozens of shops and stalls, promising herself to buy some perfumes for herself and her sisters on her way back later, and then she looked toward the bustling city. Even with the scented “screen” of the perfumers, the stench of the city was overpowering. A fragrance wall. How . . . enterprising! She pinched her nose as they stepped forward, being careful where she stepped. “The interior of the palace is a marvel with terra-cotta pipes bringing in fresh water, and carrying away waste from the indoor privies. Why this?” She motioned toward the city.
“There are trenches along all the streets and underground drainage pipes, and aqueducts and cisterns, but hundreds of thousands of people are crammed into this city, along with their animals. It backs up. Not to mention slimy fish blood and rotting vegetables.”
One of her other guardsmen said, “I would not want to take a bath in the shores of the Bosphorus or the Sea of Marmosa where all this waste is being dumped.”
“They have public bathhouses throughout the city and privies where there are as many as fifty holes in a row,” Ivar said with a gleam of humor in his eyes. “They even have sponges on a stick for wiping, to be shared by all.”
“Whaaat?” Would men ever stop surprising her with the things they would discuss, even in the presence of women? Yea, Vikings were earthier than other peoples, but this was going a bit too far. “I cannot believe you mentioned that, Ivar.”
“There are buckets for rinsing the sponge,” Ivar conceded, “but I imagine it becomes rather rank after a while.” Ivar, like many men, enjoyed shocking women with the coarser side of life. “Mayhap they dump it in the many flower beds I see about the courtyards, like the manure you put on your plants, Princess Drifa.”
“Eeew!” But, really, was it any worse than using leaves or nothing at all back in the Norselands, or Saxon lands, too? At least Norse folks bathed often. “Well, it certainly puts a different light on the Jewel of Byzantium,” Drifa decided.
“Humph! More like
a grubby, unpolished stone if you ask me.”
Drifa had to look up when talking to Ivar, as she did with the other Viking guardsmen. They were big men, and their size, as well as their weapons, was noted by many passersby as they walked on the raised pavement toward Ianthe’s jewelry shop. Ivar’s double-bladed battle-axe, which he had named Death Bringer, also drew particular attention.
Even as the guardsmen conversed with her, their eyes were ever alert for danger.
They headed toward the Augustaion, the public square, via the wide main thoroughfare known as the Mese. The Augustaion also served as a busy marketplace, with shops on both sides sheltered by colonnades. It was here they would find Ianthe.
Once they arrived at the jewelry shop, one of the guards stationed himself outside, next to one of Ianthe’s daytime shop guards. Two others went around the side and to the back of the property, and the fourth, Ivar, came inside with her.
Ianthe greeted her at the door, giving her a kiss on one cheek, then the other. “I am so glad you were able to come.”
“You are our first stop of the day. I hope we are not too early.”
“Not at all. I am up every day at dawn to prepare my shop for opening. And good that you came here first. I will show you some of the sights you must not miss in Constantinople, although it will take you days, mayhap weeks, to see everything.”
“I have time.”
Ianthe showed her around the shop first, where an assistant was laying out various pieces of jewelry on silk cloths and short display pedestals. In the back, two young women were sitting at long tables, one of them constructing a necklace of silver beads interspersed with aquamarines, and the other making one of the spiderweb creations like Ianthe had worn last night, also with aquamarines.
“You work often with the blue stones?” Drifa asked.
“I love them, all the different shades of aquamarines. Are you familiar with the stone?”
“By the runes! Am I ever! We Vikings are seamen at heart and there is a superstition about aquamarines that they keep a sailor safe and free from seasickness.” She rolled her eyes. “Because they are named after seawater, some lackwits even think they are harvested from mermaid caves.”
“I get mine from the Rus lands,” Ianthe said with a straight face before breaking out into a grin. “You would not believe the stories I hear, too. That the stones can be used as antidotes for poison, that they cure throat, stomach, and tooth aches, that they bring good luck in battle to the wearer, even that they act as love potions.”
“I know of seers who use aquamarine globes to see the future.”
They both laughed. Then Ianthe said, “It matters not to me why they buy my jewelry, just that they buy it.”
Despite Ianthe’s protests that she had not invited Drifa as a customer, Drifa purchased three of the necklaces for Breanne, Ingrith, and Vana, and a set of delicate arm rings for Tyra.
She showed Ianthe the chest full of amber that she was going to present to the king, then asked her if she could complete a quick jewelry order for her, and dumped out a small leather pouch of tiny round amber stones the size of peas. “A necklace?” Ianthe asked.
“Nay, something else,” she said with a smile.
Ivar followed her like a shadow, which was amusing, really, since he was so big and the shop so small. She could tell by his flushed face that he was embarrassed to be bending and shifting to avoid knocking anything over. When they went upstairs to Ianthe’s private quarters, Ivar was convinced to stand outside the door.
Upon entering, Drifa clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, this is lovely.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Ianthe probably thought that being a princess, Drifa had been exposed to many more luxurious female living quarters. She had been, and the palace was a far cry from this relatively humble abode, but Drifa loved it for its beauty in such a small space.
A thick Eastern carpet covered the floor with warm colors of deep red and cream and azure blue. Situated about the room were several low couches and tables.
Of a sudden, Drifa wondered how long Sidroc had known Ianthe. And how well. Oh nay! Surely he was not involved with Ianthe back when he proposed marriage to me. On the other hand, knowing the cad, mayhap he had been.
Drifa’s attention was drawn then to a far corner where incense was burning in front of a picture painted on wood of the Virgin Mary with the Christ child. “How pretty!” Drifa remarked.
“We Greeks venerate icons. Windows to Heaven, we call them. You will see them throughout the city, and not just in the palace or churches. Some of them are plain on wood, others are crafted out of enamel or ivory, even with precious jewels on them. They can be huge, like those in the Hagia Sophia cathedral, and others are portable.” Ianthe put a hand over her mouth and grimaced. “I talk too much. Sidroc says that betimes I chatter like a monkey he saw one time in far-off lands.”
Sidroc! Another reminder that the man who had been betrothed to her for a short time, the man who threatened to take her to his bed, the man who was father to a child she loved, was this woman’s . . . what? Protector? Lover?
“I enjoy hearing all this, Ianthe. Please do not stop on my account.” Or on the advice of he-whose-word-is-worthless.
Ianthe smiled sweetly and motioned toward a back door. “Since you love plants and flowers, I thought we might dine on the balcony overlooking my humble garden.”
Drifa gasped at what she saw. The balcony on which they stood, protected by a black iron railing, overlooked a lovely courtyard down below. The area was not even the size of a large bedchamber, but every space was filled with trees, flowers, bushes, and walkways, all situated around a small fountain in the center. “Oh my gods and goddesses, this is exactly what I wanted to see here in Byzantium. The palace gardens are grand, but this is the type of setting I would like to construct back at Stoneheim. Not using the same plants, of course, since many would not survive our harsh climate. Still . . .” She turned to Ianthe and said, “See, you are not the only one who can ramble on.”
“I enjoy your enthusiasm. Would you like to go down and look around? Irene is not yet done setting out our meal.” She pointed to an elderly woman who was placing platters of sliced fruit, cheese, olives, and honey bread, along with the cups of some beverage, on a round table, beside which were several chairs.
“Oh, yea, I would,” she said, and followed Ianthe down a set of steep steps, apparently the only entrance into the garden. Urns sat along the balcony and on every other step, spilling ivy and an aromatic type of trailing rose.
Although it was early morning, the air was already hot and very humid. Good for the plants but not so good for the body. Ianthe, her hair parted in the center and coiled off either side of her face, was dressed appropriately for the weather in a chiton, the traditional sleeveless, ankle-length tunic favored by Greek women, today in a pretty shade of sky blue. The garment appeared cool, with the shoulders, neck, and arms exposed. Drifa, on the other hand, was sweltering in her long-sleeved, ankle-length gunna, covered with an open-sided apron. Even though her hair was pulled off her face in a single braid, she could feel perspiration beading along her hairline and under her arms. She determined then and there to purchase cooler garments today in the marketplace, or buy fabrics to have them made.
The gurgling fountain and a flowering fig tree gave the garden a welcoming aura. In addition, on one side there was an odd tree with heart-shaped leaves. The tree was not much taller than one of her Viking guardsmen, with gnarled widespread branches as wide as it was tall.
As Drifa’s brow furrowed studying the tree, Ianthe said, “We call this the Judas tree. Supposedly the same tree from which Judas Iscariot, the betrayer of Christ, hanged himself.”
“I love the dark rose flowers.” Some of the flowers grew right out of the trunk of the tree.
Ianthe pulled several pods, resembling long pole beans, off the tree and handed them to her, but not before opening one of them and showing her the seeds inside.
“ ’Tis said that the flowers of this tree were once white, but turned dark with shame after Judas sinned by taking his own life on it.”
A fanciful story. If she took the seeds back to the Norselands, which she would definitely do, the Vikings would no doubt invent their own Norse myth, perchance involving Baldr, who was similar in many ways to the One-God religion’s Jesus Christ.
As they walked about, Drifa noted lilies, roses, and many, many irises in colors from white to blue, purple, and bright yellow. Ianthe explained that she had a particular liking for the strong-rooted flower. Friends who traveled about the world often brought her roots from any new species they saw. As a result, she now had fifty or more varieties. “It occurs to me, Drifa, that this flower would grow well in your homeland. Once mine are done blooming, I could separate the roots and give you some samples of each different color to take home.”
Drifa was touched by her generosity. “You would do that for me?”
“With pleasure.”
Guilt swamped Drifa suddenly because of her association with Sidroc, even though it was Sidroc who was the guilty party. She squeezed Ianthe’s arm. “I will come and help you dig them up. Let us say two sennights from now?”
“Oh, I do not know. It does not seem appropriate for a woman of your high station to be digging in the dirt.”
Drifa put a hand on each hip. “Who do you think does all the digging in my gardens at home? Certainly not my father. And I would not trust the servants with my precious flowers. They do not know a rose from a radish.”
They were back up on the balcony eating the lovely first meal, which was fortunately not too heavy in the heat, when Drifa brought up a subject that had been nagging at her. “Do not be offended, Ianthe, but are you able to support yourself independently here?”
Ianthe smiled. “You mean, must I depend on Sidroc’s support? Nay, do not be blushing so. I’m sure others wonder the same.”
“ ’Tis not just curiosity on my part. I come from a family of independent women, and betimes I have wondered what it would be like to live on my own. I am no longer a young maid, obviously, but still my father pushes me toward marriage.” She could have bitten her tongue for revealing so much.