Once ashore, Rurik declared his status as a merchant and, as custom demanded, slipped the harbormaster a bribe. In return, he obtained the necessary documents.
"Two mornings from now we sail. Don't get drunk and make us late," he warned.
The caravan dispersed. Vig wandered the settlement at leisure. The streets were laid out in a grid, the houses built of brick and stone. Passing a construction site, he noticed workmen mixing concrete.
Interesting.
He fished an Anglo-Saxon silver coin from his pouch and, with a flurry of gestures, persuaded a mason to let him watch.
"What's a northern barbarian want with this?" the man muttered, puzzled—but the coin kept him from chasing Vig off.
The process was simple enough: quicklime mixed with water, then gravel and river sand, finished with a strange gray powder.
Volcanic ash? Vig guessed as much, silently committing the formula to memory before stretching his arms and strolling away.
At the city center, the church dominated the skyline, crowned with the distinctive Byzantine pendentive dome. Seeing no priest move to shoo him out, Vig slipped inside. The interior glittered with gold-hued mosaics, light pouring through high windows to cast a solemn, radiant glow.
"A thousand years of craft. Magnificent."
Leaving the church, he drifted into the marketplace—just as a furious shout split the air. It sounded like Ivar.
"Borg! Stop!"
Lord Borg?
A white stallion thundered past, hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones, crashing into a spice stall and flooding the air with sharp, choking scents.
Vig spun aside, catching a glimpse of the rider's face. Borg. The very man they had chased across half a continent. Without thinking, he gave pursuit.
But the chaos of the bazaar slowed him. The white horse was vanishing at the corner. Desperate, Vig snatched a gray cloth to wrap around his shoulders, sprinted, and scrambled up the side of a low house. From the rooftops he launched the chase.
Wind roared past his ears. Tiles cracked under his boots, shards skittering down to startle passersby.
"Some acrobat's circus trick?" a woman gasped below.
He ignored her. For Vig, there was nothing left in the world now but the rider's fleeing back.
The horse plowed into a fishmonger's cart at the next turn, silver-scaled catch flopping wildly across the stones. The beast reared in panic. Seizing the moment, Vig hurled himself from the roof. He struck Borg squarely, and the two men tumbled across the slick ground.
"Don't kill me!" Borg shrieked.
Vig's answer was silence. He locked his arms around the man's neck and twisted.
Crack.
The body went limp.
After thousands of miles, it was finally done.
Before the guards arrived, Vig darted into an alley, tore away the gray cloth, and whistled a tune as he melted into the crowd.
Dong. Dong.
It was noon. The solemn bells of the church tolled across the city. White gulls wheeled above the bright sky, sunlight pouring down as if to wash away all trace of sin.
Back at the harbor tavern, Vig brooded alone over his cup until, one by one, the caravan gathered.
When they heard the news, Ivar and Bjorn cursed bitterly, disappointed the kill had not been theirs.
Ivar lifted his drink with a scowl. "I'd planned to break every bone in his body. Or carve him into a blood eagle. Quick death was too kind."
"Quiet," Rurik snapped in a low voice. "This isn't our land. Lucky Vig wore a mask. Lucky the dead man was just a northern barbarian. If the governor ordered a citywide hunt, we'd all hang."
The warning sobered them. Rurik wasted no time: he bought supplies, then at dawn the next day their ships slipped from the harbor, hugging the western coast of the Black Sea.
After half a month they reached the Bosphorus. Sailing south, they turned into the Golden Horn.
To the south rose Constantinople itself, to the north the fortress of Galata. Between them stretched the great chain that barred the harbor mouth. Ships from every corner of the world queued for inspection.
They waited in the Sea of Marmara for hours. At last Ivar snarled, "Damn it, how long must we wait?"
"Quiet," Rurik hissed. "A ship was caught smuggling something—'Greek Fire,' they say."
Vig said nothing. His gaze lingered on the hills: the mighty dome of Hagia Sophia, the gilded roofs of the imperial palace, the Hippodrome echoing with the roar of unseen crowds.
Constantinople—the city the world coveted. He had once visited here as a tourist in the twenty-first century, leaving with reluctant steps. To return a thousand years earlier felt like mockery of fate.
"Clouds drift, shadows shift, the stars wheel… Time is merciless indeed."
At last the customs officers resumed their work. One ship after another passed through the chain. When Rurik's turn came, he stammered in clumsy Greek:
"Furs. Amber. Those two ships are mine as well."
A sneering inspector boarded, examined the goods, then pointed west. "Nordic ships, piers three through six. Pay your taxes ashore."
At the docks, a customs official weighed the cargo with brass scales. Ten percent, he demanded.
Rurik spread his hands. "No coin. Can I pay in kind?"
"Acceptable."
A lump of golden amber sealed the bargain. Satisfied, the man affixed lead seals to each ship's hold, marking them as cleared.
"By the gods, these Greeks love their rules," Rurik muttered. He rented a courtyard by the docks to store their goods and house the men during their stay.
Guards were posted in shifts to deter thieves. The rest were free to roam, while Rurik himself went to the markets to seek the best price for their wares.
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