Oak Street, the civic square, the public baths, the arena— the attendant's patience was nearly exhausted.
He shot an irritated glare at the young Breton and, without another word, headed straight for the Tuna Theater.
Inside, a play about a coup in the Eastern Roman Empire was underway. After purchasing tickets, the attendant led the young man into the building.
The theater was designed in a horseshoe shape, with the stage surrounded on three sides by the audience. It could hold up to 1,200 spectators.
The ground floor contained rows of benches; ticket prices decreased the farther one sat from the stage. Seats near the front were expensive, offering close interaction with performers and often selling out quickly.
The second level consisted of dozens of private boxes of varying sizes, reserved for nobles and wealthy merchants who valued privacy and status.
To prevent fires, the theater was constructed entirely of stone. A well stood in the courtyard, and water tanks were installed on the roof. If staff pulled a special lever, water would flow through pipes and drench the interior of the building.
Just last month, a bored young man had deliberately triggered the mechanism to prank theatergoers. As punishment, he was shipped off to the Canary Islands to cut sugarcane.
The two men arrived during intermission.
The attendant scanned the audience, searching for Salomon.
Suddenly, the curtain rose again.
An elderly actor in a toga staggered across the stage, clutching his chest and abdomen. Bright red liquid dripped through his fingers onto the floor, drawing gasps from the crowd.
Moments later, a young actor in a crimson robe stepped forward and mocked the wounded man.
"Any last words, Bardas?"
"Bardas" glared in fury, reaching out weakly before collapsing heavily to the ground.
"Michael… why?"
The young man spoke with theatrical exaggeration:
"Once, I used you to topple the Empress Dowager, the Patriarch, and Theoktistos. Now I use Basil to remove you. Powerful ministers are like weeds on the steppe—winter passes, spring returns, and new ones grow in their place. Only imperial authority is eternal."
At the edge of the stage stood five additional figures.
The attendant tried to identify them:
One elderly man likely represented Basil, the favored courtier of Constantinople. The remaining four wore armor. One carried an oversized two-handed axe and a bow on his back—presumably portraying Nils, commander of the Varangian Guard.
Ten minutes later, amid the emperor's shrill, exaggerated laughter, the curtain slowly fell.
Soon afterward it rose again, revealing a group of pale, beautiful women dressed in revealing costumes, playing palace attendants.
The audience erupted in whistles and cheers.
At last, the attendant spotted Salomon and grabbed him, dragging him back toward the royal palace.
"Your Majesty, please forgive my lateness."
Vig studied the nervous, slightly overweight old man standing before his desk and smiled warmly.
"Lord Salomon, do you miss home?"
The old man answered honestly:
"Thank you for your generous hospitality. We live quite comfortably here. We rarely think about our days as refugees."
He meant it.
Since fleeing to Londinium the previous October, Salomon and his companions had been housed on Oak Street. The city's population had surpassed twenty thousand, and its markets overflowed with new goods. Sanitation and public order were excellent. Before long, the exiles had grown fond of the city.
At first, intelligence agents visited regularly to gather information. Later, the visits stopped entirely. The group drifted into a carefree routine.
Because Salomon's registration listed him as a Royal Guest, he and his followers enjoyed:
Free daily meals at the Oak Street cafeteria
A monthly living allowance from the administrative office
Some people suspected something was wrong, but following the principle of "don't create unnecessary trouble," officials simply left them alone.
In effect, Salomon and his companions had been forgotten—
becoming idle wanderers living comfortably in Londinium.
Unfortunately for them, that pleasant life was now over.
Vig intended to intervene in Brittany, which was why he had seized the Channel Islands.
As an exiled Breton noble, Salomon would be assigned to Jersey to assist intelligence operations aimed at infiltrating Brittany.
"Do your job well," Vig said calmly.
"When the time is right, I may send an army to seize Brittany and drive out Frankish influence."
The thought of leaving Londinium's comforts filled Salomon with visible reluctance. His shoulders sagged, and he shuffled out of the room with heavy steps.
Back in his office, Vig rubbed his tired eyes and opened the ledger, continuing to tally the war's expenses.
Total expenditure: 15,000 pounds
Recovered through ransom and loot: 5,000 pounds
Net cost: 10,000 pounds
The figure remained within acceptable limits.
The treasury did not need to borrow from merchants, nor raise agricultural taxes.
Meanwhile, during the war, fleets traveling between Britain and Denmark had transported refugees on their return voyages. In total, twenty thousand people had been resettled in southern royal provinces.
Overall, the economy remained strong.
With finances stable, Vig made several organizational decisions:
Two provisional infantry regiments were made permanent
They were designated the 5th and 6th Infantry Regiments
A new Ranger Battalion would be established to train more light cavalry scouts
Additionally, he planned to station two infantry battalions permanently in the Channel Islands.
Jersey lay only about ten miles from the Norman coast. Under favorable winds, Gunnar's longships could reach it quickly.
Three days later, Salomon and the other exiles sailed out with a large contingent of soldiers.
After the army took control of Jersey and Guernsey, they immediately began major construction:
Strengthening walls
Expanding fortifications
Installing additional trebuchets
Unexpectedly, the Duke of Normandy did not retaliate.
He was currently in Paris, entangled in more pressing concerns.
The sky was overcast.
Inside Saint-Denis Cathedral, a baptism ceremony was underway.
Under the towering arches, the interior glowed with light. Hundreds of whale-oil candles burned along the walls, filling the air with a faint fragrance.
The church was packed.
Nobles stood in silence.
At the front row stood Gunnar, expressionless, listening to the bishop recite prayers in slow, resonant Latin. Occasionally, the faint crackle of burning wicks broke the stillness.
Ahead of the crowd, a nurse carefully held a newborn prince wrapped in thick swaddling cloth. Only a wrinkled, sleeping face remained visible.
After a long pause, cold water touched the infant's forehead.
The baby jolted and began to cry.
The sharp wail echoed through the cathedral.
A strong cry meant a strong child.
Somewhere in the crowd, a barely audible sigh seemed to pass through the nobles.
Moments later, the priest anointed the infant's forehead with oil, completing the baptism.
Following tradition, Charles the Bald made generous donations to Saint-Denis:
Landed estates
Gold and silver vessels
Precious textiles
Large quantities of whale-oil candles
With the formalities complete, the royal family exited the church.
Outside, crowds of poorly dressed commoners had gathered.
Royal guards distributed bread and silver coins among them— a public display of royal generosity and legitimacy.
—------------------------------
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