Through the Gate of Pēramá, Rurik entered the fabled city. His feet struck marble—an entire avenue paved in white stone, gleaming beneath the sun. On either side stretched endless rows of shops, their awnings bright with silks, their counters laden with goods that had traveled from the four corners of the earth. Here were spices from Arabia, perfumes from Persia, bolts of Chinese silk, and even objects from lands Rurik himself had never heard named.
Among the marvels he passed, one in particular drew his gaze: a public bathhouse, rare as jewels in the north. Its waters flowed from the forests of Belgrade beyond the walls, borne across the land by the soaring Aqueduct of Valens, a structure so immense that it seemed less the work of men than of gods.
Within, the bath was divided into three chambers: a cold pool, a warm pool, and one filled with steaming water that clouded the vaulted ceiling. After a moment's thought Rurik chose the middle. As he sank into the warm water, a shudder of relief passed through him. The weariness of half a year's travel, the dirt of many roads, the ache of countless miles—all dissolved into the rippling pool.
That evening, when the men returned to their hired warehouse, Bjorn scoffed openly at Rurik's choice.
"You wasted your day on strolling and bathing?" he demanded. "All of Constantinople to explore, and you did nothing?"
Bjorn himself had gone to a subterranean arena where blood was spilled for sport. There he had defeated five challengers, men of distant nations, to the delight of the crowd. His winnings he squandered on wine and women, and he returned flushed with pride. The others had likewise spent their hours in indulgence. Only Rurik's restraint seemed baffling, even disappointing.
Before the argument could grow, Otto staggered through the gate, heavy with drink but triumphant.
"I have spoken with an Armenian merchant," he announced. "He will pay a high price for our wares. Rurik, you will remain by my side tomorrow—you have the gift for numbers."
Indeed, in the weeks past, Otto had discovered that Rurik possessed a strange and marvelous method of reckoning. With a reed quill on papyrus he could solve accounts in moments that baffled Greek scholars for hours. His efficiency was uncanny, his precision unerring.
The next morning the Armenian merchant arrived with two assistants. He examined the furs carefully, lifting each snowy fox-pelt to the light, praising their purity.
"White fur is the fashion of queens," he declared. "I shall take them all."
Rurik bent to the task. His quill danced across the page, and within three minutes he had calculated the value of the entire cargo. The Armenian merchant, distrustful, did the sums himself. He calculated again. And again. To his astonishment, every figure matched the barbarian's mark exactly. He looked hard at Rurik and, in Greek, muttered to Otto:
"How much for this slave? Name your price."
"Slave?" Otto choked, spitting his tea in outrage. "What nonsense is this? He is the sworn guard of a northern lord, a warrior who once slew ten Pechenegs alone in the wilds. Were he to hear your insult, he might twist your neck for sport."
The merchant raised his brows. "A pity. A true pity. Had he been born Greek, with such a gift, he would be admitted at once into the Magnaura School, to study among scholars and emerge as the adviser of nobles. Instead, he wastes his life amid northern snows."
Otto only laughed and shook his head. "The City may be glorious, but she does not hold all the glory of the world. Each man has his destiny. His lies on the storm-wracked seas of the north; mine upon the endless black plains of Rus'. Who can say? Perhaps our names will one day be known to all peoples."
The Armenian smiled faintly. "Perhaps. The future is uncertain. Who knows what legends are yet unwritten?" He paid them in coins stamped with the image of the late Emperor Theophilos, gold and silver bright with the luster of the empire.
The bargain struck, Otto locked the payment into a copper chest. That night, over their meal, he proposed reinvesting the wealth.
"Brothers, for our return journey we must row upstream against the rivers. Heavy wares will hinder us. Best we take spices and silks—light to carry, rich in profit."
"I have my own plans," Ivar interjected. "There is a steel blade in the market, the finest I have seen. From my share, I will have it."
The others named their desires. Rurik asked for chainmail, but Otto shook his head. Armor was counted as contraband, and to purchase it risked the wrath of the garrison. Reluctantly, Rurik let the matter fall.
Days later, Rurik and Otto went to the Forum of Theodosius to buy spices. There they noticed the merchant bowing low before an elderly man in a steward's robes. Again and again the steward's lips repeated one name—Bardas.
Rurik stiffened. He remembered the ring they had taken from a Pecheneg camp, engraved with that very name. Otto recalled it too. On impulse, he stopped the steward and told him their tale: how they had found the ring, how its bearer had perished.
The man blanched. He led them swiftly to a tavern, where he questioned them closely.
"You are certain the envoy was slain? That nothing remained but the ring?"
Otto nodded. "The nomads burned his letters. Only the ring endured."
The steward's gaze sharpened. He studied Otto long, then pressed a heavy pouch into his hand.
"I will return in days. Do not wander."
When the man departed, Otto opened the pouch—and his breath caught. More than fifty gold coins gleamed within, the worth of two pounds of silver.
"By the gods," he whispered. "If this is but a steward's generosity, what wealth must his master hold?"
A few casual questions in the tavern gave the answer. Bardas was no common lord. He was the uncle of the Emperor Michael III himself.
The year was 841. The old emperor Theophilos had died only two months before, leaving the throne to his infant son. The child—barely eighteen months—was far too young to rule. Thus power lay in the hands of his mother, the Empress Theodora, with Bardas and the minister Theoktistos contending for influence.
"No wonder," Rurik thought grimly, "that every conversation in the streets tastes of tension. The kingdom trembles on the edge of intrigue."
As a student of history in another life, he understood too well: such times were perilous. Common men drawn into the struggles of the great seldom escaped unscathed.
"We slew Borg, gained silver and gold. The task is done. It is time to leave this place before we are crushed in games not ours."
But fate had other plans.
When they returned to their warehouse, Rurik noticed at once a man across the street, richly dressed, seated idly at a food stall. He did not eat. He only watched.
Trouble.
Why should Bardas give away a ring worn for years, unless the matter was of the gravest import? To stumble upon it, to return it—this alone was enough to bind them in the gaze of powerful men. Otto cursed his own rashness. Yet escape was no longer possible. To flee would be to declare guilt.
Two days later, as dread hung heavy, a troop of cavalry arrived at the gate. They were clad in crimson robes and iron helms, the mark of the Imperial Guard.
"The Emperor," their captain declared, "summons the northerners."
And thus the game began.