the Christian emperor but in reality pagan heroes who returned to their homelands in the north full of tales of bloodlust and booty. By the time they were wiped out by the Crusaders during the Sack of Constantinople in 1204, many of the Guard were English, descendants of Anglo-Saxon warriors who had fled England following the Battle of Hastings in 1066
when William of Normandy defeated King Harold of England.”
“You mean the other Harold?” Costas queried.
Jack nodded. “There was Viking blood in all the contestants to the English throne in 1066. The Normans were north-men, descendants of Vikings who had settled in France the century before. King Harold of England’s Anglo-Saxon ancestors were themselves migrants from Denmark and northern Germany. But the only thoroughbred Viking among the contestants in 1066 was Harald Hardrada, King of Norway. He was the most feared of them all, and had learned his trade decades earlier as chief of the Varangian Guard in Constantinople.”
Costas measured the distance with his hand and shook his head. “That’s over two thousand miles from Norway.”
“Just as the Vikings were beginning to explore west, to the British Isles and beyond, they were also going east,” Jack explained. “From as early as the eighth-century AD Scandinavian traders were penetrating the rivers of central and eastern Europe, from the Vistula on the Baltic to the Dnieper on the Black Sea. They were seeking untold wealth, the fabled treasures of the Orient, a hunt for silver and precious stones that took them to Central Asia and deep into the world of Islam. Eventually they founded the Viking kingdom of Rus, the origin of modern Russia. From their stronghold at Kiev they were within striking distance of the place they called Michelgard, the Great City, a perilous journey down the Dnieper but the key to riches beyond their dreams.”
“That’s how they got to Constantinople?” Costas said.
Jack smiled. “It’s true. If you don’t believe it, you only have to look at Viking treasure hoards discovered in their Scandinavian homeland, full of Arab silver coins which the Vikings acquired in exchange for furs and slaves and amber.”
Jack could see Costas looking dubiously at the distance between Norway and present-day Istanbul. “If you still need convincing, take a look at this.” Jack handed him a black-and-white photograph showing a polished marble railing, its surface covered with ancient graffiti. “Those linear symbols on the edge? They’re runes, Viking letters, probably eleventh century. They’re too worn to decipher completely, but a name can be made out: ‘Halfdan was here,’ or something like that. Any guesses where it is? Thousands of tourists pass within touching distance of it every year. It’s in an alcove high above the nave of Hagia Sofia, in the heart of ancient Constantinople. Halfdan was almost certainly one of the Varangian bodyguard, and given the date, he could even have been one of Harald Hardrada’s men.”
As he finished speaking, a thudding noise from the east that had been increasing in volume became a reverberating clatter, and a Lynx helicopter appeared out of the clouds, descending towards the helipad near the shoreline.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Costas grinned and handed back the photograph.
“Right now I think we need to greet our guests.”
A few minutes later the two men stood at the edge of the helipad as the twin Rolls-Royce Gem turboshafts powered down and the main rotor of the Lynx shuddered to a halt. The first figure to step out of the passenger compartment was a strikingly attractive woman wearing a leather jacket and jeans, her long brown hair swept back into a loose bun. Maria de Montijo was one of Jack’s oldest friends, part of a close-knit group including Maurice Hiebermeyer and Efram Jacobovich who had first met as students at Cambridge. Maria and Jack had helped each other through difficult times and had forged a close bond. He
when William of Normandy defeated King Harold of England.”
“You mean the other Harold?” Costas queried.
Jack nodded. “There was Viking blood in all the contestants to the English throne in 1066. The Normans were north-men, descendants of Vikings who had settled in France the century before. King Harold of England’s Anglo-Saxon ancestors were themselves migrants from Denmark and northern Germany. But the only thoroughbred Viking among the contestants in 1066 was Harald Hardrada, King of Norway. He was the most feared of them all, and had learned his trade decades earlier as chief of the Varangian Guard in Constantinople.”
Costas measured the distance with his hand and shook his head. “That’s over two thousand miles from Norway.”
“Just as the Vikings were beginning to explore west, to the British Isles and beyond, they were also going east,” Jack explained. “From as early as the eighth-century AD Scandinavian traders were penetrating the rivers of central and eastern Europe, from the Vistula on the Baltic to the Dnieper on the Black Sea. They were seeking untold wealth, the fabled treasures of the Orient, a hunt for silver and precious stones that took them to Central Asia and deep into the world of Islam. Eventually they founded the Viking kingdom of Rus, the origin of modern Russia. From their stronghold at Kiev they were within striking distance of the place they called Michelgard, the Great City, a perilous journey down the Dnieper but the key to riches beyond their dreams.”
“That’s how they got to Constantinople?” Costas said.
Jack smiled. “It’s true. If you don’t believe it, you only have to look at Viking treasure hoards discovered in their Scandinavian homeland, full of Arab silver coins which the Vikings acquired in exchange for furs and slaves and amber.”
Jack could see Costas looking dubiously at the distance between Norway and present-day Istanbul. “If you still need convincing, take a look at this.” Jack handed him a black-and-white photograph showing a polished marble railing, its surface covered with ancient graffiti. “Those linear symbols on the edge? They’re runes, Viking letters, probably eleventh century. They’re too worn to decipher completely, but a name can be made out: ‘Halfdan was here,’ or something like that. Any guesses where it is? Thousands of tourists pass within touching distance of it every year. It’s in an alcove high above the nave of Hagia Sofia, in the heart of ancient Constantinople. Halfdan was almost certainly one of the Varangian bodyguard, and given the date, he could even have been one of Harald Hardrada’s men.”
As he finished speaking, a thudding noise from the east that had been increasing in volume became a reverberating clatter, and a Lynx helicopter appeared out of the clouds, descending towards the helipad near the shoreline.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Costas grinned and handed back the photograph.
“Right now I think we need to greet our guests.”
A few minutes later the two men stood at the edge of the helipad as the twin Rolls-Royce Gem turboshafts powered down and the main rotor of the Lynx shuddered to a halt. The first figure to step out of the passenger compartment was a strikingly attractive woman wearing a leather jacket and jeans, her long brown hair swept back into a loose bun. Maria de Montijo was one of Jack’s oldest friends, part of a close-knit group including Maurice Hiebermeyer and Efram Jacobovich who had first met as students at Cambridge. Maria and Jack had helped each other through difficult times and had forged a close bond. He
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