Harald had cleaned the blood off Rollo’s tunic and mended the rent in his shirt where the knife had cut, and Rollo was touched to see that the old man had also polished his boots. Not that the small kindnesses came as a surprise; in the many hours they had spent in each other’s company, Rollo had learned a great deal about Harald.
As Rollo lay on his bed in the late afternoon, trying to obey Harald’s injunction to rest while he could, he thought about the man who had so readily cast himself in the role of Rollo’s saviour. Harald was a generous man, and he had opened his heart to his unexpected guest. Rollo had learned many things: some that had shocked him, some that had moved him to deep pity; some that, when he came to reflect, he sensed he had known all along. And in the end, when the two men who had so recently been strangers had finally finished the last of their long, soul-baring conversations, Harald had made a request, and Rollo had promised to do his utmost to fulfil it.
What Harald had asked explained, in part, why he was prepared to lay his neck on the block to help Rollo get away.
Harald prepared a good, sustaining evening meal, but now, his tension rapidly increasing, Rollo had little appetite. The daylight faded and darkness deepened. Finally, Harald looked at him and said, ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
Harald handed him a heavy cloak made of grey wool, its hood bordered with braid. ‘The watch wear similar garments on chilly nights,’ he said. He didn’t elaborate.
Rollo’s apprehension deepened.
They stepped out into the night. For the first time, Rollo saw the outside of the house where his life had been saved. It was built of small reddish bricks, some courses of which had been laid in decorative patterns. He spotted a series of chevrons and a herringbone design. The house was modest in size, but no expense appeared to have been spared. As in the interior, the best materials and craftsmen had been used. It was situated up on one of the city’s hills, high above the tumultuous tangle of streets far below, and soaring over the towers and domes of the glorious imperial buildings and the many churches.
For a few moments, Rollo simply stood and drank in the beauty of the Queen of Cities spread out beneath him, her stonework glimmering pale and silver in the moonlight against the backdrop of the deep navy sky. Then Harald gave him a nudge, and muttered, ‘Come on. We should keep moving.’
The street descended steeply, in places turning into a flight of stone steps. Rollo wondered how Harald had managed to carry him up to his house; perhaps he’d had help. He should have asked …
Harald was moving swiftly but with great caution, darting from one patch of shadow to the next, his eyes everywhere, staring ahead, behind, and to the side in a repetitive pattern. He seemed to be leading them down on the opposite side from the Golden Horn. Wherever the ship awaiting Rollo lay at anchor – unless Harald planned to double back on himself – it must be on the Sea of Marmara side. So much the better, Rollo thought. Less far to sail under the watchful eyes of those up on the sea walls.
Presently he caught sight of those sea walls. They were battlemented, and along their city-facing side ran a long parapet from which defenders would fire down on attackers. He was about to make some comment to Harald when suddenly, breaking the night’s stillness, came the sound of boots on stone: five, maybe six, marching men.
Quick as a snake, Harald stepped into a narrow, dark alley, dragging Rollo in behind him. Already the light of the watchmen’s flaring torches was splashing against the walls rising on either side of the street. With a violent gesture, Harald dragged Rollo’s hood over his face, pushing his head down into his chest.
Rollo could hardly believe he had forgotten his training. Usually it was automatic to cover his head, knowing as he did that the pale oval of a face glowed in the dark, and the bright, liquid surface of a pair of eyes caught and reflected the light like a sheet of glass.
Once again, it seemed, Harald had saved him from disaster.
The watch passed – far too close – and Harald held Rollo back for a long time after they had gone. ‘Varangians,’ he said very softly, right in Rollo’s ear. ‘Three of them I know very well.’
When at last they stepped out on to the street once more, Rollo’s sense of vulnerability had greatly increased. He could make out the sea walls quite clearly now, and they were a formidable obstacle. He had no idea how Harald proposed to get him past them: through one of the gates? But surely there would be sentries, primed to be on the lookout for a man answering Rollo’s description.
They edged down a wider street, then branched off down a very steep, narrow alley; little more than a crack between two tall buildings rising high on either side. The alley’s sides seemed to be closing in, and Rollo feared they would not be able to get through. Then, abruptly, Harald turned to his right, bending double to crawl beneath a low archway, its sides and top faced with bricks. In pitch darkness, he led the way onwards for perhaps a dozen paces, then stopped again. It was too dark for Rollo to see but, from the sounds, it seemed Harald was feeling along the brickwork that formed the sides of the tunnel, searching for something.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he found it. There was a series of metallic sounds – Rollo caught the chink of keys – and a scratching sound as Harald thrust open a heavy wooden door, slightly lower than the arch through which they had entered the passage. He pushed Rollo inside, then crawled in after him, turning to close and re-lock the door. Having no idea where he was, nor on what he was standing – it could have been the edge of a precipice, or the top of a flight of steps – Rollo stayed very still. There was the rasp of a flint, and then a light flared, very bright in the utter darkness.
‘Now we can risk a flame,’ Harald said, satisfaction in his voice. ‘It won’t be spotted in here.’ He held up the torch, and Rollo stared round in amazement.
They were indeed at the top of a flight of steps. Carved out of stone and perilously steep, they descended into the darkness below. ‘Where are we?’ he whispered.
Harald grinned, pale teeth flashing amid the heavy beard. ‘This joins up with a passage leading from beneath the palace,’ he replied. ‘The palace is that way -’ he pointed ahead – ‘and we need to turn south and a little west. There’s a series of these passages,’ he added, ‘running from the walls back into the heart of the city.’
‘How did you know that door was there?’
‘Privileged information.’ Harald tapped the side of his nose. ‘I was a Varangian guard, remember. We who defend the emperor need to know how to get him out of danger, in any and every way we can devise.’
‘You just said the passage runs from the walls,’ Rollo said as they began the long descent. ‘It’s not going to help us if we emerge on the city side, is it?’
Harald sighed. ‘Use your head,’ he said. ‘Do you imagine I’d be bringing you down here in the subterranean dankness and darkness if I didn’t know a way to get you out safely? On the other side of the sea walls?’
‘But such a route, evading the walls, surely makes the defences vulnerable?’ Rollo protested.
With exaggerated patience, Harald said, ‘Not if nobody knows about it except the emperor’s personal bodyguard.’
That made sense, Rollo thought. Very good sense: if ever an enemy succeeded in bursting through Constantinople’s formidable defences and breaking into the palace, then it was wise indeed to have a secret way of getting the emperor out to safety.
‘You Varangians appear to have thought of everything,’ he remarked.
‘We try,’ said Harald modestly.
There followed a long time of slipping and sliding down endless steps, scrambling over unseen obstacles and crawling through impossibly tight tunnels lined with cold, damp stone. At one point they emerged into a vast open space, in which a series of deep stone-lined cisterns extended under a vaulted roof. ‘Emergency water supply in case of siege,’ Harald said. ‘The Romans built them.’