Once ashore, Otto presented himself before the harbor official with all the poise of a seasoned merchant. As custom demanded, he discreetly pressed a bribe into the man's palm. The clerk, expressionless but not ungrateful, stamped the documents that would grant passage.
"Two mornings hence you depart," the official intoned flatly. "See you do not squander the time in drink."
When Otto dismissed them, the caravan dispersed at once, each man drifting off into the bustle of the port-town. Rurik wandered idly, curious to taste the air of this foreign place. The streets ran in a neat grid, unlike the tangled lanes of northern settlements. Houses rose from brick and stone rather than timber, lending the town a weight of permanence. Passing a construction site, Rurik halted—astonished to see craftsmen at work mixing a gray, viscous substance.
Concrete.
Intrigued, he drew from his tunic an Anglo-Saxon silver coin and, by gesture, begged permission to watch.
"What business has a northern savage with our trade?" the mason muttered, baffled. Yet silver was silver, and he waved the boy closer.
The process itself seemed deceptively simple: quicklime mixed with water, blended with gravel and river-sand, and at last, a fine gray powder whose name Rurik did not know. He guessed it must be volcanic ash, rare and precious. He watched keenly, fixing the recipe in memory before stretching his arms and wandering on.
At the city's heart loomed a church of surpassing grandeur. Its dome swelled like a sail, the hallmark of the Eastern Roman style. To Rurik's surprise, the monks made no move to drive him off. With the bold curiosity of youth, he stepped inside.
The sight stunned him.
Walls shone with mosaic, every tessera a flick of color, gold predominating so that the whole chamber glowed in reflected light. Rays of sunlight streamed through high windows, setting the golden saints ablaze. The solemn hush, the shimmering splendor—it was as though the heavens themselves had stooped down to rest upon the earth.
"What artistry," Rurik breathed. "This, surely, is the fruit of a thousand years."
When he emerged into daylight, the square outside seethed with noise and trade. Stalls heaped with spices and silks crowded the cobbles. It was then he heard it—a roar from the east, unmistakably Ivar's harsh cry:
"Borg! Stand, coward!"
Borg? Lord Borg himself?
The answer came at once. A white stallion thundered past, hooves sparking fire from the stone, scattering a spice-merchant's wares into the air. A pungent cloud of cinnamon and pepper stung Rurik's nostrils. He whirled, glimpsing the rider's face—the man they had hunted across half a continent. Without a second thought, Rurik gave chase.
But the market's chaos hampered pursuit. Shouting merchants, overturned stalls, the crush of panicked townsfolk—all slowed his steps. Already the white horse veered toward a side street and would be lost. Desperate, Rurik snatched up a length of gray cloth, wound it roughly about his shoulders, then sprinted for a low-roofed house.
One bound carried him up. His boots scraped loose tiles, sending shards tumbling into the street. A woman shrieked below, "What circus fool is this?" But Rurik paid her no mind. Across the housetops he ran, leaping narrow alleys, the wind clawing at his hair, the whole city dropping away beneath him. In his sight there remained only the pale blur of Borg's stallion.
Ahead, fate played its hand. The horse, spooked by a fishmonger's toppled cart, reared amid a squirming tide of silver-scaled catch. In that instant Rurik sprang.
He hurled himself down, colliding with the rider. Together they tumbled through slime and broken fish, rolling hard across the stones.
"Don't kill me!" Borg gasped, eyes wide.
But Rurik heard nothing. He locked his arms around the man's throat and twisted savagely. A sharp crack broke the air. Borg sagged, lifeless.
So ended the chase of a thousand leagues.
Before the alarm could spread, Rurik fled into a crooked alley. There he tore the cloth from his shoulders, tossed it aside, and, with a whistle on his lips, strolled calmly into another street, indistinguishable from any other townsman.
Dong…
Dong…
The noonday bells tolled from the church he had visited earlier. Their deep resonance rolled across the city. White gulls erupted skyward in a swirling cloud, their wings flashing against the brilliant blue. Sunlight poured down in merciless radiance, as though to burn away the sins of men.
Back at the harbor tavern, Rurik chose a shadowed corner and drank alone, silent and grim. One by one, the others arrived as word spread.
The news was sure. Borg was dead.
Ivar and Bjorn scowled, lamenting bitterly that the chance had not been theirs.
Ivar swirled his ale with restless fury. "I meant to break his bones one by one. To carve the blood-eagle upon his back. Death like this is far too kind!"
Otto hissed at him, voice low. "Fool! Do you forget whose city this is? Already you tempt the noose. Be grateful Rurik wore a mask, and that the slain was but another northerner. Had he been Greek, the governor would scour the streets for us all."
The point could not be denied.
Otto wasted no more days. Provisions were swiftly purchased; with holds crammed full, the three ships slipped from harbor at dawn, coasting southward along the Black Sea shore. Half a month later they reached the fabled straits of Bosporus.
From north to south they steered, until at last the ships turned toward the Golden Horn.
There it lay before them: Constantinople, Queen of Cities.
To the south rose the city itself, crowned with soaring walls and towers. To the north, the fortress of Galata glowered across the water. Between them stretched a barrier of iron chain thick as a man's body, stretched taut across the bay. All vessels, great or small, must submit to inspection before entry.
Hours dragged. In the heat of midday, Ivar's patience frayed. "Damn it! Must we rot here all day?" he bellowed.
Otto silenced him with a glare. "Hush. Another ship was caught smuggling some devil's fire—Greek Fire, they called it. Would you have us searched?"
Rurik stood apart, saying nothing. His gaze roved past the bustling docks to the hills beyond. There soared Hagia Sophia, immense and radiant. Southward gleamed the gilded roofs of the imperial palace. And from the Hippodrome rolled a roar like thunder—crowds surging, the world's mightiest city at play.
Constantinople—the city coveted by all nations. Rurik remembered, dimly, another life, another age. He had once stood here as a tourist of the twenty-first century, awestruck and reluctant to depart. Now fate had carried him back a thousand years.
"Clouds drift, shadows linger, while stars wheel and ages pass. What jest is this, O Heaven, that I should walk again these streets?"
At length the customs officers resumed their work. One by one ships passed through the gap in the chain. When Otto's turn came, he stammered in clumsy Greek: "Furs, amber. The two ships behind—also mine."
The port warden, unimpressed, clambered aboard, rifled the wares, and at last pointed west. "Nordic vessels—berths three to six. Pay your tax on shore."
At the quay they were met by an official and four laborers. Weights were set, goods measured, and a tithe of one-tenth demanded.
"We… no coin," Otto faltered, gesturing helplessly. "Goods instead?"
The officer's face softened as he accepted a lump of honey-yellow amber. In return he sealed each cargo with leaden stamp of law.
"By the gods," Otto muttered afterward, wiping his brow. "The Greeks and their endless rules!"
A small courtyard was rented nearby, its gates barred to guard their goods. Otto posted men to keep watch by night. The rest dispersed to explore the city, while he himself vanished into the markets, intent on wringing the highest price from their furs and amber.
Thus, beneath the shadow of Constantinople's walls, their great adventure crossed into new and uncharted waters.