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“There’s more than one kind of shame,” Thork informed her. He winked, too.
I need one of those mantles that Eastern women wear, ones where only the eyes are visible. Of course my eyes probably speak of my shame, too. Drifa’s only saving grace in this whole situation was that Sidroc was absent. He would have surely added to her humiliation by showing off to one and all her love marks on him.
“Her father is going to kill me,” Wulf said to no one in particular.
“You and me both,” Ivar muttered.
“Where’s Alrek?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.
“He did not return last night,” Thork announced gleefully. “Methinks he got lucky at the tupping barrel, too.”
Jamie elbowed Thork and hissed. “Psssh, you dumb dolt. Have ye no wits in yer fool head?”
Drifa had a fair idea where Alrek had spent the night. Apparently Ianthe wasn’t as attached to Sidroc as Drifa might have thought. Sidroc had assured her of that fact. Still...
It was under ominously gray skies—a storm was brewing from the east—that they arrived at the Praetorian, where much of the city business was conducted under the watchful rat eye of the eparch Alexander Mylonas. Hundreds of people worked in beehive-like chambers of the huge building, many of them with scrolls, quills, and ink. The hallways buzzed with folks in a hurry to get somewhere. Occasionally there were shouts or once a scream coming from the bowels of the structure where Drifa knew a prison was located.
Once they arrived at Mylonas’s headquarters, they were made to wait in an antechamber for what seemed like a long time while aides came and went, none of them looking particularly happy. When it was finally their turn, a man in uniform of the tagmatic army informed them, “Only two of you may go in with the princess. Eparch’s orders.”
They were not happy about that order, but Ivar and Wulf went in with her while the rest of the men stood guard outside after ascertaining that it was the only entry or exit out of the eparch’s office. Still, they glowered their disapproval at everyone who passed by.
A rather chilling atmosphere of austerity filled the eparch’s chamber. Despite his being a wealthy man, there was no sign of riches or high station here. Just a table, behind which Mylonas sat with two men on either side of him scratching notes on crisp parchment. One of them, a defeated-looking man of Slavic origins, wore a slave collar.
“Princess Drifa,” the eparch greeted her. He did not rise as a sign of respect, which was telling. Then he addressed the others, “Lord Cotley. Ivar of Stoneheim.” Was it ominous that he recalled their names? “Sit,” he said, motioning to the hard chairs in front of the table.
“I welcome you once again to Constantinople, Princess Drifa. You have only been in the city a few days, but I wonder ... have you given thought to declaring goods to be sold here?” There was intelligence and craftiness in his expression. His two front teeth protruded slightly, enhancing his rodent appearance. This man was not and never would be a friend.
“I have no goods to sell,” she said. “I have come to study the gardens of your fair city. I am here purely for my own pleasure.”
At the word pleasure, his head shot up and he gave her a studied, insulting scrutiny, mostly centering on her bruised mouth, as if he knew what she had been about the previous night. Surely he could not know. Could he?
“Those were fine gifts you gave the emperor and empress. Are you sure you do not bring into my country items for sale or barter? The penalty for smuggling undeclared goods into Byzantium is high.”
“I have already said that I do not. Is it against your Greek law to give gifts?”
Mylonas narrowed his eyes at her sharp retort. “Of course not. But already you have established contact with one of our craftsmen, rather craftswoman. The jewelry maker. I hope you do not intend to supply her with stones?”
“I have no intention of doing such. If I ever did, I would declare myself, as your law prescribes.”
“Tell me, Princess Drifa, do you intend to contact your Arab family while here?”
That question came out of nowhere and took Drifa totally by surprise. “What? Why would I do that? How would I do that? I know of no Arab family.”
“Your mother ... ?” he prodded.
“My mother was a slave afore she wed my father. She died when I was born. As far as I’m concerned, I am Norse and always will be.”
Mylonas shrugged.
“What is this about?” Wulf demanded. “Is Princess Drifa accused of some crime?”
“Did I say that?” Mylonas made a ridiculous-looking moue of innocence, which caused his teeth to stick out even more over his pursed lips. “If you must know, Princess Drifa came to the attention of some Arab dignitaries at the feast two nights ago.”
“Arabs were invited to a Greek feast?” Ivar asked incredulously. Everyone knew of the ongoing battles between the Christian and Moslem nations.
“While we are at war with most of the infidels, who have declared a jihad against all Byzantines, there are some who are friendly,” the eparch revealed. “Those who are not number far greater, of course, and they include your possible blood relatives.”
Drifa and her companions reeled with shock.
