Passing through the Gate of Pege, Vig let himself drift through the city. The main avenue was paved in marble, lined with shops and—rare in the north—public bathhouses.
Their water ca from the Belgrade Forest, carried into the city along the towering Valens Aqueduct.
Inside, the baths divided into three sections: cold pools, warm pools, and scalding hot ones. After a mont's thought, Vig chose the warm pool. As the heat soaked into his body, half a year's worth of weariness seed to dissolve away.
That evening the caravan regrouped at the warehouse. Bjorn eyed Vig with disbelief.
"You went out just to stroll and bathe? Nothing else? That's pathetic."
As the most archetypal Viking, Bjorn had instead made for an underground arena, where he flattened five n from five different lands. With his winnings he hired two prostitutes and devoured a feast. In his eyes, those few hours had been gloriously spent.
The others had similar tales. Only Vig's restraint stood out, leaving them puzzled.
Rurik stumbled in late, reeking of wine. "I've found a buyer. An Arnian rchant. He'll pay handsoly. Vig, you'll stay and help reckon the sums tomorrow."
By now, Rurik had noticed the northerner's strange talent. Vig's thod of calculation was swift, clear, and efficient—better than the Greek scholars themselves.
The next morning the Arnian arrived with two assistants, carefully inspecting the cargo. At the sight of the snow-white fox pelts, he could not hide his delight.
"Aristocratic ladies adore white fur. I'll take the lot."
Vig, quill in hand, scratched out the figures on papyrus. Three minutes later he had the tally. The rchant, working by the old ways, checked and re-checked. At last he admitted, stunned, that the numbers matched perfectly.
He turned to Rurik in Greek. "How much for this slave? Na your price."
"Slave?" Rurik spat his tea in shock, coughing violently. "What nonsense! He's no slave. He's bodyguard to a northern lord—killed ten Pechenegs alone in the wilds. Lucky for you he doesn't know Greek, or he'd snap your neck."
"A sha." The rchant sighed, still staring at Vig. "If he were Greek, with such rare gifts he'd be welcod at the Magnaura school. He could rise to a post in governnt or as counselor to a great house—instead of scratching out a living in the frozen wastes."
Rurik only shook his head. "There's nothing to regret. Constantinople is rich, yes, but it doesn't hold all the world's glory. Every man has his fate. His belongs to the stormy northern sea. Mine lies on the endless black earth of Rus. Perhaps one day, our nas will be known across the world. Who can say?"
"Perhaps. The future is hard to read." The rchant smiled faintly, then paid in gold and silver coins stamped with Emperor Theophilos's likeness.
Business done, Rurik locked the coinage in a bronze chest. At dinner he proposed their next step.
"On the return we'll row against the current. We can't carry too much. Spices and silk will serve us best."
Ivar claid part of his share for a fine steel sword he'd spotted at market. The others made their own requests. Vig wished for mail armor, but Rurik reminded him such arms were tightly controlled. Vig dropped the idea.
A few days later, Vig and Rurik went to the Forum of Theodosius to deal with a spice rchant—who, at that mont, was bowing low before an elderly steward. The rchant repeated a na again and again: Bardas.
Vig thought instantly of the ring taken from the Pechenegs. Its owner had been called Bardas.
Rurik recalled it too. He intercepted the steward and told him of their find.
The man's face darkened. He led them to a tavern and pressed for details. "You're certain that caravan was wiped out by nomads?"
Rurik nodded. "We broke the Pecheneg camp ourselves. All we found was the ring. The letter it carried had been burned."
"I see…" The steward eyed Rurik keenly. Before leaving, he slipped a pouch from his belt and set it down.
"I will return in a few days. Do not wander."
When the steward was gone, Rurik peered inside. Over fifty gold coins glead within—worth at least two pounds of silver.
"A steward with such wealth? What kind of master does he serve?"
At the tavern they asked around. The answer ca: Bardas was uncle to Emperor Michael III.
The year was 841. Theophilos was dead two months, his son crowned at eighteen months old. With the emperor a child, real power lay with the Empress Regent Theodora, her brother Bardas, and the logothete Theoktistos.
"A child on the throne. Power split between factions. No wonder the city's whispers felt strange," Vig thought.
He knew enough history to sense danger. A commoner caught in such struggles risked annihilation.
"We've killed Borg. We've earned more silver and gold than hoped. Best to leave while we still can."
But when he and Rurik returned to the warehouse, they saw a well-dressed man sitting across the street at a food stall—watching them.
Trouble.
Whatever Bardas had sought to send east, it was grave enough to entrust with his own ring. Now the northerners were entangled.
Rurik cursed his luck. "We can't simply run. Not with eyes on us."
Two tense days passed. Then a troop of riders arrived—guards clad in crimson cloaks. The Varangian Guard.
The ssage was brief: the Emperor wished to see the northerners.
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