TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn Read Online Free PDF Page B

that Grand Prince Jaroslav now was.
    When he first saw that city, Harald sucked in a quick breath. Never had he known anything so big. The North had only a few small towns, otherwise folk dwelt in thorps and steadings. Novgorod had grown rich on the fur trade, and its leaders had added an empire to its hinterland. The outer walls, of heavy logs banked with earth, loomed sheer on both sides of the river; the eastern landing, where the Norsemen halted, swarmed with people as ants may swarm in a man-high anthill.
    Word had gone ahead, and royal guardsmen waited to offer horses. The ride was slow through narrow, crowded streets, but Harald was so interested in his surroundings that he didn't notice the tedious pace at which he progressed.
    Timbered, galleried houses, gaudily painted, hemmed him in. Booths lined the thoroughfares, spilling over with furs, cloth, tools, weapons, gold and silver. A besmocked peasant drove an oxcart creaking with grain sacks toward a big-bellied trader. A housewife carried a market basket in her hand and a baby on her back. A priest, barefoot, bearded, in a coarse black robe, picked his way between tumbling, squalling children. A warrior strode by, ax on shoulder, outfitted not unlike a Northman, but with his head shaven save for a lock on the right side.
    Though roundskulled, snub-nosed, and less tall, these Russians looked much like folk at home. They wore the same shirt and breeches, but left off the cross-gaiters and added calf-length boots of colored leather. Some men bore the high narrow-brimmed hat of summer, others still clung to the fur cap and belted coat of winter. They seemed more chattersome than Northerners, and men often walked hand in hand.
    Passing a broad open square where stood a platform and a wooden bell tower, Rognvald, who had been here before, said to Harald: "This is where the townsmen meet when they've something great to decide. The bell summons them, and the king must stand and tell them what's to be done, and then they all talk on the question."
    "Why, that's like a Thing at home," said Harald.
    "Well ... no, not really. They call this folkmoot the vieche, and it can often break out into a fight."
    Harald was shocked. A Thing was peace-holy. "I see not why the king suffers that," he said.
    Rognvald gave him a narrow look. "A king must take his folk as he finds them. Olaf met death because he went too strongly forward. Do not forget."
    Rage caught at Harald's throat. "No," he said, "I'll never forget."
    The bridge thundered beneath them and they entered the west side of town, where the great families dwelt. For the first time Harald saw a few brick buildings. On a central square stood a cathedral. Though wooden, it wa s unlike the stave kirks of Nor way, not only of another shape but far bigger and with thirteen tall steeples.
    "What's this I have heard about the Russians being a different kind of Christian from us?" Harald asked.
    "Yes, they call themselves Orthodox rather than Catholic," said Rognvald. "It has something to do with the Creed; and they have Mass in their own tongue instead of Latin, and cross themselves from right to left; nor may they eat bear and rabbit; and they dispute certain powers of the Pope." He shrugged. "Some think it a large matter."
    They came to the house where Jaroslav was staying. This was no mere hall like a Northern king's, but had many rooms, magnificently furnished in the strange stiff Russian way. Harald, Rognvald, and the man's young son Eilif—his wife was home in Orkney—were led to the throne chamber by guards and servants, for noblemen here stood much on their dignity.
    Jaroslav Vladimirovitch, Grand Prince of Novgorod, not yet forty and already among the world's foremost lords, should have been a lusty giant. Instead, Harald saw a dwarfish cripple, one leg withered and twisted, the broad ugly face plowed by pain. His furs, embroidered tunic, red hose, gold and jewels, the carven bulk of his throne mocked him. Yet when he spoke,