“As for the sword,” she added, “it first came to Britain with Julius Caesar, who had found it, so the story goes, in the ruins of Troy. He wanted to conquer our homeland, but the Britons fought him under their prince, Nennius. During one of the battles, Caesar and Nennius engaged in single combat. Nennius was a great warrior, but Caesar even greater, and when his legions were forced to retreat he left Caledfwlch buried in the prince’s skull.”
“For a time Nennius hovered between life and death, but no-one could save him, and he died and was buried with honour. Most of his belongings were buried with him, but not Caledfwlch. The priests took the sword, and threw it as an offering to their pagan gods into a certain pool beside Caer Gai, near the mountains of Eryri.”
“How did Arthur come by it?” I asked. Caledfwlch lay unsheathed on my lap. I ran my fingers up and down the blade, marvelling at its strange history.
“The prophet and magician, Myrddin, who advised Arthur when he was a young man, went in search of Caledfwlch. He knew the region where it lay, and beseeched the gods of wind and water to deliver it up to him. The waters of the pool parted, and the sword appeared, held aloft by the skeletal hand of a long-dead pagan king. Myrddin gave it to Arthur, who wielded it as a symbol of his authority.”
Even at five, I was somewhat inclined to doubt this version of events. “Wouldn’t it have rusted, from lying in the water for hundreds of years?”
Eliffer chuckled and patted my head. “An ordinary blade would, yes,” she said, “but this was forged by the gods on Mount Olympus. It could well be indestructible.”
Her faith in ancient Greek gods, especially coming from a Christian, surprised me, but a child can only question so far. I was content to believe that the sword really was Caesar’s, and that Myrddin had dredged it up from somewhere. From the little I knew of that old trickster, much of the story was probably a lie spun from his fertile imagination.
After several weeks on the road we passed from Germania into the lands of the Bulgars, and crossed the frozen waters of the Danube into Thrace, the westernmost province of the Eastern Empire. By now it was deep winter. Our caravan descended from the Haimos Mountains into a bleak, snowbound landscape swept by icy rains and frequent snowstorms.
The native Thracians that we encountered wore fox-skin caps on their heads and thick shawls that covered their bodies and reached down to their feet. We could have wished for such protection against the cold, which was so intense it made watered wine freeze inside the jars. I experienced the agony of frostbite for the first time in my life, and Eliffer bundled me up in furs and cloaks until I resembled a heap of baggage.
Clothaire traded with the Thracians, exchanging cloths and silks for spiced wine and food to get us through the last stage of the journey. He punished the wine savagely, and if I concentrate I can still hear his harsh, cracked voice echoing across the barren white fields, braying some obscene marching song from his time in the army.
The memory of my early youth is wreathed in shadows, and it has taken much effort to dredge up the details I record here. Soon they shall sink back into the black well of my fading mind, forgotten save for the words scratched on this manuscript. One image, however, shall never leave me. The first time I beheld Constantinople shall remain scored in my brain until my dying hour.
We approached the city from the west, the only side it is not bound by water. Our travel-weariness lifted as the distant walls came within sight, and a thrill of excitement ran through the guards and drivers. Clothaire’s mounted scouts galloped on ahead, forgetting their duty in their eagerness to see the fabled city of the Romans.
I had listened to endless stories of Constantinople during the journey, and was heartily sick of hearing about the place. It could not, so I thought, possibly be so impressive in reality.
“O imperial city, city of the emperor…Queen of the queen of cities, song of songs and glory of glories!”
This snatch of rhyme runs through my head as I try and record my first impression. That great concentric ring of fortifications, a triple line of walls protected by a moat and enclosing the landward side of the city, would have impressed an adult. To a child it seemed awesome and not quite real, a dream-fortress that had somehow taken on substance. I had seen walls and towers of similar design as we passed through Thrace, but the sheer scale of the defences of Constantinople was overwhelming.
“There lies our future,” said my mother. She placed a hand on my shoulder and pointed at the city, still some miles away and yet filling the horizon to the west. “There we can begin anew.”
Eliffer had never divulged how we were to forge a new life in Constantinople. I doubt she really knew. She was focused on merely getting there. It was a place of silver and gold, she thought, the richest in the world, and one of endless opportunity. A woman of high birth, beauty and learning could not fail to prosper in such a place.
My poor mother was deluded. New lives did indeed await us inside the city, but not of the sort she imagined.
Chapter 4
We joined the steady flow of traffic entering the city via one of the bridges that led across the moat, and through one of the nine main gates that pierced both the inner and outer walls. I had never seen such a variety and number of people, ceaseless hordes of pilgrims and travellers and merchants and soldiers from all over the civilised world. Dozens of alien languages babbled in my ears, and my mother laughed and clapped her hands for joy at the excitement and grandeur of it all.
Grandeur: that is my abiding first memory of Constantinople. Our caravan rattled through wide marble-paved avenues leading from the gates in the western wall to the very heart of the city. We entered squares and plazas decorated with sculptures taken from all regions of the world and brought here, to this New Rome, before the Western Empire collapsed.
I vividly recall the sculptures, carved in marble and stone and portraying old pagan gods such as Zeus and Heracles, or in the shape of fantastic animals. Added to these were representations of classical heroes of Rome and Ancient Greece, the twin pillars of the Eastern Empire.
We passed a plinth that bore a huge marble statue of a Roman general in full military regalia, one hand raised in victory, his severe, hook-nosed profile glowering in eternal disapproval at the crowds below.
I asked the Frank driving our wagon who the statue was supposed to represent. “Julius Caesar,” he grunted. I gazed up in awe at the great man, and silently made him a promise to look after his sword.
Clothaire led his wagons into one of the plazas, where he called a halt while he went in search of lodgings.
“I’ll take the Sarmatians as an escort,” he said, balancing uncomfortably on his crutch, “the rest of you will stay here and keep an eye on the goods. This city is the same as any other. Rotten with thieves.”
“Perhaps I should come with you,” said Eliffer, “I am quite fluent in Greek and other languages.”
Clothaire’s ham of a face twisted into an alarming frown. “I can make myself understood, thank you,” he growled, “do as I say, and keep that son of yours out of trouble.”
He swung away on his crutch, flanked by the Sarmatians. We waited for their return and kept a careful eye on the wagons. Droves of people bustled through and around the plaza, making the place almost unbearable with their noise and stench.
“Clothaire resents me,” said Eliffer, “I have staved him off with promises, but now our journey is ended, and I do not mean to fulfil them.”
She shuddered and looked around thoughtfully at the crowds. “We must get away. A few more days, enough time for me to wheedle some money out of him, and then we can escape. This city is big enough to lose ourselves in.”
Some hours later Clothaire returned hours in a foul mood, having eventually arranged lodgings for us all in a series of tavernas in the north-western quarter of the city. He had also managed to find storage for the wagons and merchandise, though only after much haggling with a warehouse owner whom he roundly cursed for a crook and a swindler.