stuck fast on the chains and broke its back.
Many of her crew were lost, but some were rescued from the sea.”
“That’s it,” Jeremy said excitedly. “What I was saying yesterday. The timbers you found in the chain in the Golden Horn were from Harald’s second ship. Snorri doesn’t say it actually sank, which explains why you only found the wood broken off in the chain. The skull with the helmet must be one of the drowned Varangians.”
“What happened to your namesake?” Jack asked Maria.
“According to Snorri, Maria was released unharmed when they reached the Black Sea and even given an escort back to Constantinople. Maybe her kidnapping was Harald’s way of cocking a snook at Zoe, but he’d already moved on and was planning to marry King Yaroslav’s daughter Elizabeth, probably a girlfriend of his in Kiev before he joined the Varangians.” Maria smiled at Jack. “But others think Maria remained with him and was his mistress and true love to the end.”
“So you think the menorah was stolen on the same night?” Costas persisted.
“Yes. If the Varangians had time to kidnap Maria, they also had time to snatch the greatest treasure they knew of in Constantinople.”
“That maybe explains the menorah symbol on the Hereford map.” Costas stared into the middle distance for a moment, lost in thought. “If the Vikings were only interested in the treasure as gold bullion, then it seems odd that the shape of the menorah should still have meaning years later when Richard of Holdingham wrote down that runic inscription. Maybe the fact that it was forbidden treasure, not palace-plunder, gave the menorah added significance. It could have become a symbol of Harald’s prowess, his manliness, a spoil of victory like in Roman days, to be endlessly trumpeted by the Vikings in sagas and feasts. When they got back home the story of that final night in Constantinople must have kept the Varangians in free drinks for the rest of their lives.”
They all turned to Jeremy, who averted his gaze and then glanced down at his computer, then looked Costas full in the face. He paused for a moment before speaking, his tone oddly troubled. “You’re probably right. But that may only be part of the story.”
At that moment the pilot’s voice came over the cabin speakers to announce that they were beginning their descent into Kangerlussuaq, the former US air base that now served as Greenland’s main international hub on the west coast. Jack looked out his window and saw that they had crossed the edge of the Greenland ice cap and were now approaching the Davis Strait, the wide channel of ocean between western Greenland and the Canadian Arctic. Below them lay sinuous fjords and expanses of green that suddenly made the Viking settlement of these shores seem plausible, an inconceivable thought on the barren east coast. As the aircraft banked sharply and turned back east they came in line with the longest inlet of them all, Søndre Strømfjord, with the bleak and sparse settlement of Kangerlussuaq scattered over the valley at its head. A few minutes later the undercarriage dropped and Jack could make out two aircraft parked in bays of the former military airfield in the centre of the valley, the first an Antonov An-74
transport jet which had preceded them with Costas’ precious gear and the second a Lynx helicopter bearing the distinctive logo of the International Maritime University.
“We’re coming over the icefjord now. Take a look out to port and you’ll see the tips of icebergs through the mist.”
James Macleod took his hand momentarily off the cyclic and pointed past Jack at the jagged pinnacles of white that appeared like peaks of distant mountains through the clouds. In the passenger compartment behind them, Maria and Jeremy leaned forward to follow his gaze. With the three-hour time difference from England it was still early morning, and the sun had yet to burn off the sea mist caused as the cold air tumbled off
Many of her crew were lost, but some were rescued from the sea.”
“That’s it,” Jeremy said excitedly. “What I was saying yesterday. The timbers you found in the chain in the Golden Horn were from Harald’s second ship. Snorri doesn’t say it actually sank, which explains why you only found the wood broken off in the chain. The skull with the helmet must be one of the drowned Varangians.”
“What happened to your namesake?” Jack asked Maria.
“According to Snorri, Maria was released unharmed when they reached the Black Sea and even given an escort back to Constantinople. Maybe her kidnapping was Harald’s way of cocking a snook at Zoe, but he’d already moved on and was planning to marry King Yaroslav’s daughter Elizabeth, probably a girlfriend of his in Kiev before he joined the Varangians.” Maria smiled at Jack. “But others think Maria remained with him and was his mistress and true love to the end.”
“So you think the menorah was stolen on the same night?” Costas persisted.
“Yes. If the Varangians had time to kidnap Maria, they also had time to snatch the greatest treasure they knew of in Constantinople.”
“That maybe explains the menorah symbol on the Hereford map.” Costas stared into the middle distance for a moment, lost in thought. “If the Vikings were only interested in the treasure as gold bullion, then it seems odd that the shape of the menorah should still have meaning years later when Richard of Holdingham wrote down that runic inscription. Maybe the fact that it was forbidden treasure, not palace-plunder, gave the menorah added significance. It could have become a symbol of Harald’s prowess, his manliness, a spoil of victory like in Roman days, to be endlessly trumpeted by the Vikings in sagas and feasts. When they got back home the story of that final night in Constantinople must have kept the Varangians in free drinks for the rest of their lives.”
They all turned to Jeremy, who averted his gaze and then glanced down at his computer, then looked Costas full in the face. He paused for a moment before speaking, his tone oddly troubled. “You’re probably right. But that may only be part of the story.”
At that moment the pilot’s voice came over the cabin speakers to announce that they were beginning their descent into Kangerlussuaq, the former US air base that now served as Greenland’s main international hub on the west coast. Jack looked out his window and saw that they had crossed the edge of the Greenland ice cap and were now approaching the Davis Strait, the wide channel of ocean between western Greenland and the Canadian Arctic. Below them lay sinuous fjords and expanses of green that suddenly made the Viking settlement of these shores seem plausible, an inconceivable thought on the barren east coast. As the aircraft banked sharply and turned back east they came in line with the longest inlet of them all, Søndre Strømfjord, with the bleak and sparse settlement of Kangerlussuaq scattered over the valley at its head. A few minutes later the undercarriage dropped and Jack could make out two aircraft parked in bays of the former military airfield in the centre of the valley, the first an Antonov An-74
transport jet which had preceded them with Costas’ precious gear and the second a Lynx helicopter bearing the distinctive logo of the International Maritime University.
“We’re coming over the icefjord now. Take a look out to port and you’ll see the tips of icebergs through the mist.”
James Macleod took his hand momentarily off the cyclic and pointed past Jack at the jagged pinnacles of white that appeared like peaks of distant mountains through the clouds. In the passenger compartment behind them, Maria and Jeremy leaned forward to follow his gaze. With the three-hour time difference from England it was still early morning, and the sun had yet to burn off the sea mist caused as the cold air tumbled off
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