Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 Read online

Damian smiled at the image of the smug warrior in such a demeaning position before he returned to the letter.

  There is one stipulation on the transfer of Heimdalsson to your command. I understand your desire to have him gelded before he enters your Imperial service, but let me assure you such a course would render the man useless. While there is no stigma attached to the condition of a eunuch among us — indeed, as you yourself have experienced, it is often the path of preferment to high office— but among the Varangians, it is a source of such shame, the man would probably fall on his own sword.

  Written with the callousness of an intact man, Damian thought with bitterness. He shifted in his seat. How often had he contemplated the very course? Suicide had held real appeal for him during the excruciating period of recovery after the hot knife severed his ballocks from his shocked body. Sometimes, when he woke in the night, drenched in old woman's sweat, Damian still weighed the value of a gladius thrust to his heart. He read on:

  Heimdalsson may be a hell-bound barbaroi, but he has taken the Varangian Oath. Among the Northmen, a pledge binds a man more effectively than the promise of gold, which I'll not deny they covet beyond the degree of most. Erik is the emperor's pledge-man. He will serve you well.

  The document was duly signed and embossed with the general's signet. Damian rolled up the scroll and tapped the end absently on the enamel desktop.

  This was an unexpected turn. He'd tried to find a female Norse-speaker for the task, but it seemed the Tauro-Scythians preferred to keep their fair-haired women in their distant frozen vastness. If Damian had to employ a Northman at all, common decency required he be a eunuch since the man would be spending copious amounts of time with a virgin. Quintilian had ruled that out and Damian could not afford to feud with the man who controlled a force of berserkrs a thousand strong. Now Damian would have to monitor the time the girl spent with her language tutor—time he could put to use elsewhere, but her purity must be without question for his plans to succeed.

  Damian would have preferred a Northman without a personal interest in the girl. Of course, given her unique appeal, any man would soon acquire an interest.

  Even a half-man, he admitted to himself. When he was first gelded, he continued to wake each morning with a painful erection for some months, an ache that could not be assuaged. Then he schooled himself to thrust that part of his nature aside, to cultivate the life of the mind to compensate for the loss of the flesh. But since the girl had taken up residence in his apartments, his phallus stirred to life once more with frustrated lust.

  He studied Heimdalsson's rough-hewn face, meeting the Northman's icy gaze without a blink. Damian read a certain undisciplined intelligence in the barbaroi's features.

  But could he be trusted? Perhaps it didn't matter. Just because he made use of the man, the Tauro-Scythian didn't have to be privy to all Damian's plans.

  “Very well, Northman,” he finally said. “I'm told the Varangians are prepared to die for the emperor if needs be. Is this true?”

  “I am the Bulgar-Slayer's pledge-man,” Heimdalsson answered. “My blade and my body are the emperor's to command. My heart's blood is his. What does my lord the emperor require of me?”

  “Nothing so dramatic, I fear. You'll be back leading the charge at the head of your one hundred ruffians in no time.” One corner of Damian's mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You only have to tame and teach a willful woman.”

  "For three souls to hold a trust in confidence is an impossibility. Two may keep a secret, provided one of them is dead."

  —from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  A tingle of fear pierced Valdis's groin. She stood on the edge of a cliff, albeit a man-made one. She leaned over the balustrade of the balcony and peered at the tagmata exercise yard below. The Imperial forces struck terror in the hearts of all peoples who lived along the coasts of the inland sea, but the fighting men far beneath Valdis's feet looked small and insignificant from this height.

  So must all humans appear to the Court of Asgard, she reasoned. No wonder her Norse gods took so little interest in her plight. Perhaps the distance was so great, this sun-baked land so far from the North, Odin the one-eyed All-Father was unable to see her at all.

  Damian's apartments in the Imperial Palace faced the rising sun. Valdis shielded her eyes against the glare of mid-morning and gazed upon a forest of stone men and women mounted on tall spires. Yesterday when Damian caught her looking at them with interest, he tried to tell her about them, but she could attach little meaning to his words. “Acropolis” was a word he repeated several times, so she assumed that was what the congregation of granite was called.

  The statues were so beautiful at first she surmised that they must be the gods of this southern city. Only the trio of giants at the Great Temple in Uppsala could compare with these stone renderings. Then she remembered that the citizenry of Miklagard were followers of Kristr. If at one time the statues of the Acropolis were venerated as Odin and Thor and the stiff-phallused Frey were in the North, that time was long past. Stately robed courtiers wandered among the stone gods without leaving a single offering.

  There were, however, a few broad pedestals where a living man resided, hunkered against the wind. “Stylites,” Damian had called them.

  Valdis thought them mad.

  But the common folk of Miklagard revered the stylites, bringing them food and drink, which was lifted to the filth-encrusted hermits in wicker baskets.

  How strange the people of this city are.

  Her gaze swept further north, beyond the gates that marked the Imperial Palace as a city within a city. Domes and stele and minarets stabbed the sky as Miklagard flowed over its seven hills. There seemed no end to the packed tenements and opulent palaces, and everywhere were the ornate houses of the Christians' three-headed god.

  But she knew the city eventually found its boundary in a series of walls so tall and thick she hadn't believed the tales when she first heard them as a girl.

  She believed them now.

  Valdis turned back into the Greek's apartments, discouragement sagging her shoulders. Even if she could escape the Imperial grounds, and that was no mean feat, where would she go?

  Perhaps it was time to begin limited cooperation with her captor. If she could speak the language, she might be able to find her way back to the wharves. Then she could barter passage on one of the many ships she watched slipping from the Golden Horn into the deep water sparkling beyond.

  The eagle-embossed door to the apartment swung open and the Greek entered with a courteous-sounding greeting, as if he hadn't stalked out in a furious boil not long ago. An amused smile played about his full lips. Behind him, another man paused at the threshold before following Damian in.

  It was the Varangian from the slave market.

  Odin was crossing their paths once more. This must be why she'd dreamed of him. Surely her countryman would come to her aid.

  She could have wept at the sight of him, rough-edged and big, despite the polished leather chest piece and kilt that marked him as a Varangian. His face spoke to her of home. His brows were so pale as to be almost invisible above his North Sea eyes. A small scar lifted one of them in a perpetual question. His flaxen hair brushed his broad shoulders. Some warriors followed the fashion of fussily braiding their long beards, but this man's facial hair was neatly trimmed and brushed free of snarls. His upper lip was hidden by a mustache, but what she could see of his mouth made her run her tongue over her own lips. High, flat cheekbones and a sharp nose made his face too raw-boned for Grecian ideals of masculine beauty, but Valdis's breath quickened as she drank in the sight of him.

  He was out of his element in the Greek's elegant chambers, yet he took possession of the space as if by right. Here was a man who could meet any challenge, if only she could bend him to her will.

  “Thanks be to Odin,” she murmured.

  Damian spoke a few words to the Northman, who conti
nued to look around the lavish space. Like Valdis, he was clearly in awe of the magnificence of their surroundings.

  “The eunuch says he's glad to learn that you're not mute after all,” the man said.

  Valdis frowned. Eunuch? She lifted a brow at Damian. Birka's skald had ventured to Miklagard once and brought back many amusing and scurrilous tales about the eunuchs of the great city, aping their mincing gait, corpulent forms and feminine voices. The darkly handsome Greek before her displayed none of the affectations of the “third sex.”

  But it explained much. No wonder Damian was unaffected by her presence in his sleeping chambers. He was not a true man.

  The Varangian certainly was. He strode toward her with the confident awareness she expected in a male. He stopped an arm's length away from her and let his gaze slide over her as though he hadn't been at the slave market and already seen her unclothed.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Have you been gone from the fjords so long you've forgotten your manners?” she returned with tartness. “You might at least give me the favor of your name before demanding mine.”

  “Erik Heimdalsson from Hordaland. I'm a centurion, and a soldier quickly loses patience with the niceties of polite society. Now, as to your name, your host demands it, not I.”

  Valdis cast a glance at Damian, who was looking at her expectantly. “He's not my host. He's my gaoler. And he seems to think he owns me.”

  “He doesn't just think it, he knows it,” Erik said. “If it's any comfort to you, he paid handsomely for the privilege. You at least owe him your name.”

  “I owe him nothing, but I'll give my name to you. It's Valdis,” she said. “Valdis Ivorsdottir of Birka.”

  Erik relayed the information. Damian flashed his row of even teeth at her and repeated her name with the beguiling hint of an accent. Then he withdrew to his room, busying himself with correspondence at a small desk but keeping a discreet eye on Valdis and Erik.

  A self-appointed chaperone.

  “A soldier, you say.” Valdis draped herself across the gold brocaded divan and motioned for Erik to sit on the ottoman opposite her. “Rather an odd choice for an interpreter, don't you think?”

  “I'm not here to translate. I'm here to teach you their language and I expect you to learn quickly.” He ignored her offer and stood over her, hands fisted on his waist.

  She smirked up at him. If he intended to intimidate her, he'd have to try harder than that. Damian's protective presence insulated her from this big man's threatening stance.

  “You seem intelligent enough. The eunuch admitted he tried to teach you. Why have you resisted learning?”

  “Because whatever he wants me for must require it.”

  “Are you always this stubborn?”

  “What would you have me do?” She rose to face him. “I am not accustomed to life as a thrall. I'm the freeborn daughter of a landed karl. Unlike you, I've no ax to wield or I'd have done it. Would you submit willingly to an iron collar?”

  “I see no collar.” He looked down at her and Valdis felt his gaze traveling further south than her neck. Her nipples tingled under his scrutiny. She turned from him and strode to the open balcony.

  “Maybe not, but I feel the weight of it all the same. I won't bear it.” She glanced over her shoulder, mildly disappointed he hadn't followed.

  Erik was looking around her gilded chamber. “Ja, I can see how life on a cushion would gall a body. You are clean, well-clothed, fed and housed as if you were the goddess Freya herself.” He moved toward her, and then walked past her to lean on the balustrade. “Has the Greek made any other demands on you besides learning his language?”

  “No.”

  “Then consider yourself fortunate in your lot. Everyone in this city is a thrall, one way or another.”

  Valdis frowned at him in confusion.

  “Every soul in Miklagard serves the emperor. From the boy who sweeps the camel dung from the Mese”— he extended an arm to point at the wide major thoroughfare that knifed through the city—“to the tagmata in the yard below, to your perfumed master in the next room. They all live or die, are exalted or abased, by the one who wears Imperial purple.”

  “I suppose that includes you as well.”

  “It does. I am oath-sworn to serve the Bulgar-Slayer as long as I live,” Erik said.

  “You never intend to return home?”

  A shadow passed behind his eyes. “I'm not here to talk about me. I'm here to teach you to speak the language of the Christians.”

  “Only because of your oath to the emperor?”

  “Why else?”

  She peered at him from under her lashes. “You bid on me at the market. I thought might have another reason.”

  “I have repented that foolishness. Believe me, your master did us both a favor when he outbid me.”

  She decided to toss the knucklebones of fate and hope for the best. Valdis leaned toward him and rested her fingertips on his forearm.

  “I asked for your help at the slave market and you did what you could then. Now you're in an even better position to aid me.”

  “I'm a soldier under orders. Nothing more.” Despite his words, she saw the hungry longing in his eyes.

  “No wonder you encourage me to accept thralldom,” she said with bitterness, hoping to goad him into helping her. “You've accepted the collar readily enough. You even take orders from a eunuch.”

  He snatched her hand and gripped it tightly. “Don't confuse honoring an oath with slavery. Do you think I enjoy serving under your master? I only do it because we are both pledged to the emperor’s interests. But you're right. It makes as much sense as ... as yoking a warhorse with a mule.”

  She pressed her advantage. “Neither of us belongs here. Don't you want to hear Norse instead of the babble of tongues in this place? Don't you wish to see lights dance on the Northern horizon again? Or raise a horn of mead instead of the Christian's sweet wine?” She lowered her voice to a feverish whisper. “Please, Erik. Let us find a way to leave this place and go home.”

  She thought she had him until she said the word "home." He jerked away from her as if she were an adder.

  “Never speak to me of that again,” he said. “I cannot go home.”

  “Then at least help me leave the palace, to—”

  “And just where do you think you would go?” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “Women may own property and choose their own men in the Northlands, but let me assure you that is not the case here in Miklagard. If you venture abroad in the city without an escort, you'll find yourself in a brothel by nightfall, spreading your legs for all comers.”

  “I asked for your help and you bid on me,” she said. “How did you intend to help me then?”

  He raised a hand to stroke her cheek. “I intended to help myself, Valdis. I'd take you to my bed and enjoyed the forbidden pleasures of the North for the brief time I held you.” His face hardened like an ice-choked fjord. “Right now I'd like nothing better than to bend you over this balcony rail, pull up your skirt and rut you blind. You should thank the gods the Greek won you instead of me.”

  Valdis backed away from him, shocked by the man's raw suggestions and even more shocked at the heat between her legs. A sharp edge flashed in his pale gray eyes. She was suddenly thankful Damian was within easy call.

  “So you must regard me as your teacher, not your champion. The first lesson I have to teach you is the place of a woman in Miklagard,” Erik said. “The best a woman can hope for is the protection of a good man.”

  An unpleasant smile spread over his face. “And as you've already discovered, I am not a good man.”

  Fortune favors the bold. She also favors those who know how to manipulate the bold.

  —from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  “Kharan' ligo —” Valdis said flatly, leaning her cheek upon her palm.

  “Lego,” Erik corrected for t
he third time. “Lego, not ligo. Kharan lego soi. Try it again.”

  “Kharan lego soi,” she repeated.

  “Good. Now what does it mean?”

  Her brows knit together and she gnawed her bottom lip. Finally she shook her head. “I can't remember. None of it makes any sense. It's all gibberish.”

  “No, that's not the right answer,” Erik said, being purposely obtuse. “Kharan lego soi means ‘I wish you joy.’ Now say it again.”

  She mouthed the syllables in a tone that suggested she wished him snatched bald-headed or roasted on a spit—anything but joy.

  “Good. Now count to one hundred like I taught you yesterday,” he demanded.

  “Pax!” she shouted at him.

  Enough. At least she'd used a Greek word correctly.

  He grinned at her. She was even more comely than usual when color worked its way up her neck and onto her cheeks. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed driving her to irritated outbursts.

  She really had done well in the weeks they'd been working together. She could name all the pieces of furniture in the Greek's apartment and correctly give the plural, as well. Days of the week, months, colors, articles of clothing—individual words seemed to stick in her mind, but the complicated grammar eluded her completely. Grecian word order seemed to make no sense to her Nordic brain. Valdis's frustration reminded him how bewildered he'd felt when he first came to Miklagard five years earlier.

  He forced the grin from his lips and regarded her with sternness. Idiot! he berated himself. If he lowered his guard by so much as a finger-width, her hypnotic eyes would lance him to the heart. He wasn't sure which one of them troubled him most—the sensual dark or the ethereal violet. He was never certain which eye to focus his gaze on, and indecision kept him strangely off-balance.

  Erik continued to be grateful to Odin or Kristr or whichever god had conspired to assist the Greek to outbid him for her. If she'd been his, he'd have lost all sense of duty to his regiment. He lived each day for the time he could escape her presence. Valdis was a siren, he told himself, a slow poison seeping into his veins, leeching his resolve to rebuild some semblance of a life.