"Kazimain, please," I said, clinging desperately to the last remaining certainty I possessed. Though it cut me deep, there was no disputing what she said. I had enough honesty left in my heart to recognize the truth when I heard it.

"We are betrothed no more."

I cannot say the strength of her resolve surprised me. She was, after all, the same Sarazen princess who had defied her uncle and risked all to follow us into the desert alone. She had shown herself steadfast in every way, and she demanded no less from the man who would share her life. Sure, a blind man could have seen I was not her equal. Once, perhaps, but no longer.

"If only we could have stayed in Samarra," I said, accepting the finality of her declaration at last. "I would have married you, Kazimain. We would have been happy there."

This touched her, I think, for her manner softened towards me, and she stretched a hand to my face. "I would have followed you to the end of the earth," she whispered. Then, as if this admission would recoil upon her, she pulled away, straightened, and added, "Even so, it is finished between us."

Gathering her robes about her, she lowered the veil once more. "I will pray God grants you peace, Aidan."

I watched her move away, slender and regal, her head high. She turned as she reached the colonnade and, looking back, called, "Farewell, my love." Stepping into the shadows, she disappeared, leaving only the faint, lingering scent of oranges and sandalwood in the air.

Farewell, Kazimain. I have loved you, and love you still. No other woman will ever own my heart; it is forever yours.

I stayed alone in the courtyard for a long time, listening to the sounds of the celebration, and marking the slow progression of the stars overhead. In the end, I did not join the revelry, but remained in the courtyard all night, wretched and alone.

Never had I felt so rejected and forsaken. I wept that night for the loss of my faith, no less than for the loss of my love. The last frail cord that bound me to the world and to myself had been severed, and I was now a soul wholly adrift.

When the Logothete of the Treasury arrived at midday the next day, he found a somewhat groggy King Harald surrounded by a ragged band of bleary barbarians, the splintered remains of six wine casks, and an assortment of scattered bones and broken dishes. Upon presentation of the imperial official, the jarl revived wonderfully well and, after graciously offering the logothete a haunch of congealed pork-which the courtier declined with equal grace-the two sat down to reckon accounts.

Naturally, I was required to sit with them so as to translate for Harald. As on similar occasions, I was very soon moved to a kind of awe at the wily Dane's ability to exploit the latent opportunities of any situation. Armed with a modest array of weapons, he nevertheless used them with impressive skill: now wheedling, now cajoling, then pouting, coaxing, or demanding; he could shout, shaking the rooftrees with anger, yet never lose his temper; he could cozen with a convincing display of good-natured ignorance one moment, and the next perform the most intricate calculations with bewildering speed and accuracy.

By the time the logothete departed, he seemed a dazed and broken man. And why not? Harald had triumphed utterly, conceding a few minor battles along the way, while sweeping the field and winning the war. The imperial coffers were lightened by more than sixty thousand silver denarii, making Harald and the few surviving Sea Wolves wealthy men one and all.

When, later in the day, the payment arrived-half in silver denarii, and the other half in gold solidi, contained in five stout iron-bound sea boxes, as agreed-I helped Jarl Harald make his mark on the vellum scroll the courtier produced to record the Danes' receipt of the payment.

When the official and his men had gone, Harald offered me a share of the wealth. "Take it, Aeddan," he urged. "If not for you, none of us would be alive to enjoy our good fortune. Yours is a debt of gratitude we cannot easily repay, but it would cheer me greatly to see you accept it."

"Nay, Jarl Harald," I told him. "The losses represented by that treasure were yours alone. Give it to the widows and orphans of the men who will not be coming home."

"I will provide for them, never fear," the king said. "But there is more than enough. Please, take something."

Again, I declined, but Harald prevailed on me to take a generous measure of gold solidi to assist myself and the other monks on our return journey. The suggestion made sense, and I accepted the coins, whereupon the Sea King departed saying he would find another way to repay me. He then declared another feast-this one to celebrate their new wealth. The festivities occupied them the rest of the day and far into the night. When the revelry reached a fine, expansive mood, the Danes fell to boasting recklessly of all they would do with the riches they carried home with them. Gunnar and Hnefi took it upon themselves to surpass one another.

"When I get home," declared Hnefi loudly, "I will have a ship trimmed in gold!"

"One ship only?" wondered Gunnar. "I myself will have a whole fleet of ships, each larger than the last, with mast and oars of gold."

"Well and good," continued Hnefi grandly, "but I will also have a drinking hall larger than Odin's-with a hundred vats of ol to slake the thirst of all my karlar, of which I shall have a thousand."

"Well, that may do for you," conceded Gunnar loftily, "but such a mean hut would never do for me, for I will have ten-thousand karlar, each with his own ol vat."

Hnefi laughed scornfully. "You would need a hall far larger than Valhalla to hold them all!"

"Well then," Gunnar smiled at the ease with which he had trapped Hnefi, "I shall have such a hall-larger than Valhalla, so that each of my noblemen will have a place at table to feast with me. And a hundred skalds to sing my praise by day and night."

And so it went, each striving to better the other in outrageous displays of greed made glorious by dint of evermore-extravagant boasts. Those looking on called encouragement to the two contenders, laughing loudly, and praising each new height of imagined excess.

I sat listening, bone-aching exhaustion stealing over me as I looked from one beaming Sea Wolf face to the next. They were so like children, so simple and uncomplicated in their pleasures and desires, unaware of anything save the present moment, to which they gave their unstinting attention. I gazed at them and wished I could return to that quality of innocence. Then, weary with the weight of all that had happened in the last two days, I crept away to my bed.

Despite their late-night revelry, the Danes rose early the next morning and hastened to the wharf at Psamathia where the ships were moored. As Constantinople resumed its normal busy pace, the other gates were opened once more and Harald brought the three longships around to the small harbour which served the great houses along the Golden Horn-the better, he said, to keep an eye on the provisioning for the voyage home.

"When will you leave?" I asked him. We were standing on the quay at the place called the Venetian Quarter, watching some of the Danes load sacks of grain into the longships.

He squinted at the sky and looked out at the sea, then called something to Thorkel, who was ordering the storage of the supplies as they arrived. Receiving a grunted reply, Harald turned back to me, and answered, "Tomorrow. It is a long time we have been away from Skania-a very long time, and the men are eager to return to their wives and kinfolk. The weather is good. We will leave tomorrow."

"I understand," I said, unsettled by the suddenness of the departure. "Sure, I will come down and see you away."