The emperor was scarcely eighteen months old, unable even to speak. What business could he possibly have with us?
Rurik grumbled inwardly. At the cavalry's urging, he and his companions squeezed into the carriage. Gazing out at the landscape flying past, he suddenly realized the coach was heading not toward the imperial palace, but away from the city.
"How strange. The palace lies by the sea in the southeastern quarter—why are they carrying us west?"
Perplexed, Rurik watched as the carriage rattled through the bustling streets until at last they reached the towering ramparts of Constantinople. Passing beneath the city gates, the convoy pressed onward until they arrived before the outermost fortifications of the city—the mighty Theodosian Walls.
This world-renowned bulwark stood in two lines: the inner wall, twelve meters high, built of hewn limestone, with a square tower rising every fifty meters, each nearly twenty meters tall; and the outer wall, lower at eight meters, defended still further by a moat twenty meters across.
Rurik swallowed hard.
"What impregnable defenses…"
Were he the attacker, with no great bombards at his disposal, even catapults and ballistae would prove useless against such ramparts. Only tens of thousands of infantry in a direct assault—or an attack from the sea—might prevail. Yet a seaborne offensive was riskier still: the Eastern Romans wielded their secret weapon, Greek Fire, which clung to wooden hulls and burned with unquenchable fury. Even at the height of the Arab Empire, when their fleets outnumbered the Romans many times over, they twice besieged the city and twice were scourged by this terrible weapon, forced at last to abandon their conquest.
Two hours later, the convoy reached its destination. Rurik leapt from the carriage and beheld a sight upon the western hills: countless purple tents gleaming in the sun, ranks of the Imperial Guard arrayed below, banners snapping in the wind, spears bristling like a forest. It looked to be the grand autumn hunt.
"At last, you've arrived."
From nowhere, the steward appeared, leading the Vikings up the slope. As they went, he explained the situation:
"At the year's beginning, my lord wished to send envoys to the Rus, to invite them against the Pechenegs of the steppe—those nomads harry our settlements on the northern Black Sea coast, imperiling the grain supply. Alas, the envoys were slain en route. Since you men are skilled in war, my lord would have you escort the next mission when you return."
When Otto translated this in their tongue, Rurik felt the tautness in his chest at last ease.
"So it's only to guard envoys? If they'd said so earlier, I needn't have fretted so."
After a search for weapons, the merchants were led to the hilltop, where they paid homage to a one-year-old child enthroned in purple robes.
Strangely, the infant emperor showed no fear of the towering Northmen. He clapped his chubby hands and laughed, prompting the courtiers to laugh with him, and the tension in the air melted.
Rurik kept his head bowed, studying the assembly with sidelong glances.
The woman in purple at the emperor's left must be the Dowager Theodora—her smile composed, surrounded by noble ladies. On the right, the man exchanging glances with the steward can only be Bardas. Further still, the haughty man flanked by richly dressed retainers should be the minister, Theoktistos.
The dowager raised her cup and bade Otto recount the entire affair. When she heard how Rurik had stood alone against the nomads—slaying ten and driving off four more—she turned her head and whispered to Bardas.
Bardas's smile thinned.
"If the dowager doubts the Northman's tale, why not let him prove himself? I have of late purchased a blade of Damascus steel—let it be the prize for the victor."
"So be it," said the dowager. She scanned the nobles. "Who among you will fight?"
A lady from Patras put forward her household guard, and Theodora agreed. The weapons would be blunted.
Rurik sized up his opponent, a man named Basil, perhaps in his thirties, of middling stature by Greek measure—seven or eight centimeters shorter than Rurik. From his gait and his eyes, he seemed no seasoned swordsman… or was he hiding his skill?
"Begin, then," the dowager said lightly, raising her cup for the eunuch to pour.
At once Rurik lunged a great step forward, swinging his blade down with all the momentum of his stride. Basil raised his sword to parry—only to be staggered by the Viking's sheer strength.
Rurik pressed the moment, twisting his blade against the other's, then flicked upward with a serpent's strike. The blunt tip struck Basil's wrist.
Before anyone could blink, the man's weapon clattered to the ground. The bout was over—and the dowager's cup had not yet been filled.
The nobles stared in astonishment. Even Rurik himself was dazed.
"Am I truly so skilled? That can't be…"
Glancing about, his eyes fell on a bronze mirror nearby. He froze—his body had grown taller in the past half year, the traces of boyhood gone, replaced by the frame of a Viking warrior.
"Well done! I knew Northmen were poor liars. Bring the Damascus blade at once!" Bardas laughed heartily, heedless of the dowager's displeasure. Even little Michael, the emperor, joined in his mirth.
In the council that followed, Bardas's proposal to support the Rus won broad assent. He had not only secured his aim but humbled the dowager's pride. The hunt was a triumph.
Back at the caravanserai, Rurik examined his prize: a Damascus steel sword, its weight much the same as any single-handed blade, its length about eighty centimeters, with a blood groove near the hilt. Winding patterns shimmered across the surface, and at the pommel a garnet gleamed dark red.
Otto whistled in admiration.
"Fortune smiles on you. Such blades are both supple and keen, the finest weapons in the world. Have you thought of a name? Perhaps Oathkeeper, Slayer, or Widow's Howl?"
Rurik gazed at the sword's rippling patterns, as though they had been forged in a dragon's breath. After long thought, he named it Dragon's Breath.
"What a strange name. Well, the blade is yours."
Yawning, Otto summoned the men to tally the wealth Bardas had bestowed—the payment, in truth, for escorting the envoys.
When all was counted, he lay back and stared at the starry heavens.
"This profit is worth eight ordinary journeys. With it, I can end my merchant's life early, and at last pursue the dream I've always yearned for. Who would have thought the day would come so soon?"