kentarchos, her sailing master. Angrily he demanded to know who this strange-looking foreigner with the long moustaches was who came climbing aboard his ship as though he owned her. When the man from the dromos explained that Harald had a letter from the sekreton of the Orphanotrophus, the kentarchos glowered, then accompanied us at every pace around her deck, watching us suspiciously.
Harald missed nothing. Fascinated by this unknown design of war vessel, he asked how the dromon handled in a seaway, how her sails were set and reefed, how nimbly she could alter course, how fast she went when all two hundred oarsmen were at the benches and for how long they could keep up a cruising pace. The kentarchos answered reluctantly. To him a bearded Norseman was a natural foe. Time and again I had to remind our guide that it was the Orphanotrophus's order that Harald should be familiar with the imperial war fleet, and one day Harald's men might be aboard as his marines. The kentarchos looked as if he would prefer to scuttle his vessel.
Finally we reached the forecastle in the dromon's bows.
'And what is that?' asked Harald.
A bronze tube protruded through a metal plate, pointing forward like a single nostril. Close behind the tube stood two metal baths, joined by copper pipes to an apparatus that looked like a pump.
'That's the vessel's siphon,' said the man from the dromos. The kentarchos glared at him, then rudely walked in front of Harald, deliberately blocking his view.
'Not even the emperor's direct command allows me to tell you more,' he growled. 'Now get off my ship.' To my surprise, Harald obeyed.
Much later, when we were safely back outside the arsenal and no officials were in earshot, Harald muttered, 'So that's how they launch the Fire. But how do they create it?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm not even sure what it is.'
'When I was in Kiev I heard people describe how it destroyed a war fleet in their grandfathers' time,' Harald said. 'People marvelled how the Fire ignites in the air, turning to cinders anything it touches. It even burns underwater. It's amazing.'
That evening, when I asked Pelagia about the Fire, my normally reliable source of information was little help. She told me that only a handful of technicians knew how to create it, and that the ingredients were among the most closely guarded state secrets. Rumour had it that the Fire was made of quicklime mixed with an oil that comes from the earth. I told her about the strange bronze tube aboard the dromon and she laughed. She said that there were foreign sailors who believed the imperial navy had a breeding programme of fire-breathing dragons, which they stowed below decks before setting out on a campaign and then let loose in the bows of their ships just before a fleet action.
Shortly after the feast day of the Transfiguration, one of Constantinople's major festivals, and two months after his arrival Harald finally had his audience with Michael. It took place in yet another of the splendid halls w ithin the Great Palace, the Mag naura, which was often used for greeting foreign ambassadors, and as luck would have it I was a member of the imperial escort. As I took up my position behind the throne and rested my axe on my shoulder, I felt like a nervous schoolmaster who waits to see how his star pupil will perform. The interior of the hall was like a vast church, with columns and galleries and high windows glazed with coloured glass. The far end opened on to a wide courtyard planted with trees, and there the supplicants were assembled. Among them I could see Harald, standing a full head taller than his colleagues. In the foreground stood a host of court dignitaries waiting for the signal from the master of ceremonies. Even after witnessing dozens of such ceremonies, I still marvelled at the splendour of the occasion. The courtiers and dignitaries were dressed according to their seniority and the office they held. There were senators and
Harald missed nothing. Fascinated by this unknown design of war vessel, he asked how the dromon handled in a seaway, how her sails were set and reefed, how nimbly she could alter course, how fast she went when all two hundred oarsmen were at the benches and for how long they could keep up a cruising pace. The kentarchos answered reluctantly. To him a bearded Norseman was a natural foe. Time and again I had to remind our guide that it was the Orphanotrophus's order that Harald should be familiar with the imperial war fleet, and one day Harald's men might be aboard as his marines. The kentarchos looked as if he would prefer to scuttle his vessel.
Finally we reached the forecastle in the dromon's bows.
'And what is that?' asked Harald.
A bronze tube protruded through a metal plate, pointing forward like a single nostril. Close behind the tube stood two metal baths, joined by copper pipes to an apparatus that looked like a pump.
'That's the vessel's siphon,' said the man from the dromos. The kentarchos glared at him, then rudely walked in front of Harald, deliberately blocking his view.
'Not even the emperor's direct command allows me to tell you more,' he growled. 'Now get off my ship.' To my surprise, Harald obeyed.
Much later, when we were safely back outside the arsenal and no officials were in earshot, Harald muttered, 'So that's how they launch the Fire. But how do they create it?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm not even sure what it is.'
'When I was in Kiev I heard people describe how it destroyed a war fleet in their grandfathers' time,' Harald said. 'People marvelled how the Fire ignites in the air, turning to cinders anything it touches. It even burns underwater. It's amazing.'
That evening, when I asked Pelagia about the Fire, my normally reliable source of information was little help. She told me that only a handful of technicians knew how to create it, and that the ingredients were among the most closely guarded state secrets. Rumour had it that the Fire was made of quicklime mixed with an oil that comes from the earth. I told her about the strange bronze tube aboard the dromon and she laughed. She said that there were foreign sailors who believed the imperial navy had a breeding programme of fire-breathing dragons, which they stowed below decks before setting out on a campaign and then let loose in the bows of their ships just before a fleet action.
Shortly after the feast day of the Transfiguration, one of Constantinople's major festivals, and two months after his arrival Harald finally had his audience with Michael. It took place in yet another of the splendid halls w ithin the Great Palace, the Mag naura, which was often used for greeting foreign ambassadors, and as luck would have it I was a member of the imperial escort. As I took up my position behind the throne and rested my axe on my shoulder, I felt like a nervous schoolmaster who waits to see how his star pupil will perform. The interior of the hall was like a vast church, with columns and galleries and high windows glazed with coloured glass. The far end opened on to a wide courtyard planted with trees, and there the supplicants were assembled. Among them I could see Harald, standing a full head taller than his colleagues. In the foreground stood a host of court dignitaries waiting for the signal from the master of ceremonies. Even after witnessing dozens of such ceremonies, I still marvelled at the splendour of the occasion. The courtiers and dignitaries were dressed according to their seniority and the office they held. There were senators and
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