The parade from the ships to the gates continued, but the real activity stretched along the bank. The river had become a bath. Normally, grooming took place in the Big House, but the number of filthy men who had spilled from the ships necessitated a different solution, and the slave girls had set up shop on the flat wet stones that lined the Danu. Kama and Inga crouched to watch. There appeared to be several phases. The slave women tore the dirty attire from the sailors, examined the garments and then tossed them either on a smoldering fire or on a wash pile for charwomen to soak and smash against stones. Stripped of their blackened clothing, the men sat in rows on a long log, where a different set of women applied soap to hair and skin. The crews then displayed their bravery by charging full speed into the cold current. Even now after many days under the warming sun, icy streams mixed into the flow, and there was much yelling as sailors splashed. Soapy lather pooled and washed away. The final preparations took place farther down the bank where servants toweled the men and then brought new tunics, before trimming, snipping and combing.
The Big House was probably already loud with mead drinking. Men liked to amuse themselves with wrestling and taunting the girls whose job it was to give them pleasure. Not that Kama knew. She stayed away from hall during homecomings. But there were stories. Tova, one of the townhouse women, bragged that, before she had earned her freedom, she had been one of the most desired, which was hard to imagine with her wide back and hips.
Kama then became aware of a different collection of stones and logs where a separate cleansing ritual was taking place. Seated on the river-worn wood were children, younger than Kama and Inga, it seemed. Kama and Inga stood and took several steps toward the gathering, so they could perhaps see the faces and hear the exchange. They were close enough to observe without being seen. Kama counted five bodies. The girls were darker skinned, like Kama’s mother. Black hair cascaded over their shoulders and chests—a row of tiny bodies with veils of untamable curls. Kama wanted to look away but couldn’t resist staring. She guessed they were sisters. Rope tied their hands and linked them together. The cord wrapped around a pair of wrists, extended across the lap to reach the next girl, creating a chain that prevented any one from running, unless they all tore off together.
This was how it had been for Kama’s own mother—Katerine. She had run time and time again and finally discovered freedom in the nunnery in Constantinople, where Kama’s father had found her, another Mediterranean treasure—like more priceless soap, perfume or silver.
Guarding the girls was a woman with a white cap that hung straight down and made Kama think of rabbit ears. Her long black dress could have been some sort of apron that wrapped and tied around her body. She was delivering a speech of some kind, saying a few words, then clapping, a few more then more clapping. The girls paid no attention, but looked down with dreary expressions that suggested exhaustion. Perhaps they had attempted to fight and flee and now were worn out with hunger and lack of sleep. Or they couldn’t understand what the woman was saying. The woman’s jabbering could have been completely incomprehensible, like the choruses that came from gulls and crows.
Beside her stood a man with a whip. He lifted one girl’s hair and laughed. Puzzled and scared, she chose to laugh back. It was better not to resist. Then one girl began shouting—fast howling like an animal crying without any hope of being heard. The girl stood, even though doing so yanked at the ropes. She was taller than the rest, but still not a match for the guard or his female accomplice, who ceased her prattling and grabbed the girl’s arm to force her down. Kama expected the guard to raise his whip and slash the disobedient girl’s face, but when none of that occurred, she realized he could never harm her appearance. Beauty gave value. Scars would lower the asking price.
He dropped the whip and began jigging from one foot to the next, yelling, as though it were all a lark, and babbling a song that seemed to belong around a long table in a Big House, where drinkers became “shit-faced,” as Asa said.Here under the open sky with the river’s freshness nearby and the uncertain future of a set of captured sisters, the lyrics were misplaced. But the song went on and became louder. He lifted his tunic and held his erection as though he were the statue of the Freyr, whose body-length stone penis reminded onlookers that the rain was his sperm, and he, the god of prosperity, fertilized the crops and fields. But the man with threatening eyes was a not a deity. He was a dog about to bite. As he jigged, he stroked himself and danced closer to the older, angry girl, until he erupted liquid over her face and hair. Kama had been staring so intently, she imagined it touching her own skin and eyes.
She was glad she was Sigtrygg’s daughter—Sigtrygg son of Gnupa, king of the Dane land. Her grandfathers and great grandfathers had been the first Swedish merchants to conquer the south Dane land and then venture across the Baltic to Kiev and down the rivers to the Black Sea. Over time, they had risen to power. Her father could have inherited the throne, but he was fascinated by eastern monasteries, ancient languages and dark-eyed women like Mother, and therefore chose to stay a trader, traveling the deep river year after year.
Kama lived here with her mother but soon she would sail to Hedeby, where she would sit beside her grandmother, Queen Astrid, and eventually become queen.
Inga’s future was less certain.
2
In the townhouses, Katerine was full of foreboding. No good could come of any of this. Her stomach felt heavy and hot like the night air when the earth was about to quake. Terrible events had happened. And there were more to come. Others trampled over her. But we´re all equal in god’s eyes. Even her. Even Katerine.
She needed to act now when the flowers were in full bloom.
Katerine lifted her heavy tunic, so her legs could swing free from the bench. She walked quickly across the yard, avoiding questioning eyes. She opened the door and stepped into her house. The heat stopped her. She didn’t want to move. Why was everything such an effort? She sat at her loom for a few deep breaths and then continued with her task. The apron with the large pockets hung on its hook. It was simply crafted. The bottom was folded up and stitched in place on the edges and in the center to hold plants. She removed her dress and replaced it with her night shift. Too much cloth could slow her. She needed to be unencumbered.
Tigers might be waiting outside the gate. Bears could be hiding in the tall grasses. Their slow pigeon-toed steps could speed up suddenly into a chase. Thieves could appear out of nowhere, charging on their horses, to steal her jewels and drag her off by her hair.
She slipped on the apron. Help me, Jesus, she prayed. Our father who art in heaven, she said, asking for help. She needed to stop the shadows from dimming and distorting all thoughts of tomorrow. What would happen to her if she didn’t act now? She would be alone here and would never get back to Constantinople. Did she even have enough coin to live? She needed to be more careful with her allowance. Hide the silver. Count it everyday.
She placed a knife in one of the apron pockets. Shaking, she turned the door handle. The front opened to a green space and the big barn. The hot stench of horses, sheep and cattle greeted her.
Soon she was walking where the weeds grew high. Soon she was knocking on the door of a misshapen stone hut. Her mother had taught her to check first with the herb women, who saw the wild spaces as their own. Simply picking without asking was trespassing. She banged until the door finally creaked open. An old woman stood in the doorway.
“Belladonna,” Katerine said.
“No Belladonna.” The woman shook her head. “No Belladonna.”
Katerine stole a glance into the hut. Perhaps this wasn’t the right Norse word, and she would see the plant there. A large pot hung over a fire. The smells were sour. Bunches of herbs hung from nails along the walls. A bench balanced on uneven floors. But no Belladonna. The door creaked shut in her face.
She turned and stepped down the crooked stones that led away from the house. Everywhere chamomile colored the ground. In the distance grasses grew tall. She glanced across the fields.
Sunflowers