by The Golden Horn; The Road of the Sea Horse; The Sign of the Raven (epub)
Harald nodded.
"We're in grave danger of becoming serious," warned Ulf. "Here's to good King—no, Knjaz Jaroslav."
"To his daughter Ellisif," Harald said afterward. "A sweet child, and her dowry won't be small."
They skaaled Ellisif, and they skaaled Ingigerdh, and they skaaled the kings of Norway since Harald Fairhair, and they skaaled Ingolf of Vik who had first settled Iceland, and they skaaled Eirik the Red because he won Greenland and his son Leif who found a country further west where grapes grew wild, and they skaaled St. George, and they skaaled the Pope and the Patriarch both so as not to be partial, and they skaaled the good men in the tavern with them and bought a round of drinks, and they skaaled Sighvat the skald for his fine verses, and about that time Harald stood up and bawled forth some of the Bjarkamaal for the company, who did not understand a word but cheered anyhow, and then Halldor said he needed fresh air as well as the alley for letting his water, and Ulf pointed out that if they kept on drinking they would be of no use for anything else they might find tonight, so they got up and bowed to their new friends and went out the door with Harald's head nearly taking the lintel along.
2
A salt mist blew through the darkness. Ulf said something about knowing where a good dice house was, if only he could be sure which way was north. As he groped his way toward the street, his hands closed on a face. He slipped his palms downward. "Male," he sighed, and let go.
A lanthorn bobbed around the edge of a wall, borne by one who peered ahead. Shadowy behind him came several more. "That's them, the barbarians!" he yelped. "Have at them!"
The band shuffled forward. There was just enough light for Harald to recognize one of the three whom he had sent from their bench. They must have fetched others to help them get revenge, and, of course, to plunder the well-filled Varangian purses. Knives gleamed, sticks twirled.
"Ha!" shouted Ulf joyously, and fed knuckles to the nearest face. A staff hit Harald's elbow. Pain flashed most of the drunkenness out of him. Angered, he snatched the rod away and brought it down himself. It broke on the crown of its owner, who fell loglike.
"Yuk-hai-saa-saa!" chanted Ulf, the old viking war yell. His knife was out and his cloak twirled about his left arm as a shield. Halldor got back to back with him and they slashed unsteadily but with a right good will. Harald grabbed a ragged dalmatic, drew the wearer close, knocked out some teeth, picked him up by the ankles when he crumpled and swung him against the attackers.
The tavern door opened again and sailors erupted forth. They knew not who was fighting or why, but this seemed too good a brawl to miss. The alley roiled.
Feet tramped, weapons clashed. "The city guards," gasped Halldor. "Best we scramble out of here. Wouldn't do for you to get arrested, Harald, would it?"
"Up, then," said the prince, and raised the Icelander to his shoulders. "No, don't hang there like a slice of wet bread. Grab the roof here by us."
"I have it." Halldor chinned himself onto the flat top of the building, lay belly down, and stretched a long arm to help Ulf. Between them, those two got Harald up.
Heavy official feet clattered below, amidst sounds of breaking heads and cursing men. Harald groped to the far side of the roof. It was only a small jump to the next.
"That was fun!" panted Ulf. "What shall we do next?"
"Let's see how far aloft we can go," Harald proposed.
They went from roof to roof. "The guards will hear about three Varangian rioters," Halldor warned. "I'd not put it past them to stake out the Brazen House for latecomers. We'd better go to earth somewhere until tomorrow."
They crossed the roofs till they reached a street too wide to overleap. A tomcat, crouching there, gave them what Harald thought was a look of understanding.
"'Shall we scramble back down?" he wondered aloud.
Halldor squinted into the mist, now whitened by a moon that it hid. Droplets glistened in his mustache. "Do I hear voices underfoot?" he asked.
Ulf put an ear to the deck. "Aye," he said. Prowling about, he found a trapdoor. "Well, well." He opened it. Light, noise, warm smoky air trickled forth. "Seems promising, eh, boys?"
A ladder led to a cubicle with a door. Beyond the door was a bedroom. The girl and the man in the bed seemed surprised when two strangers and one giant stalked past in search of a corridor. "What sort of place is this?" squalled the man.
"Do go on," said Harald politely, and closed the hall door behind his party. They took a stair down to a large chamber where more girls were, as well as men who fondled them, drank and gambled. "Greeting," said Harald to their astonishment.
"A kindly saint has been with us," Ulf decided. "Here we have everything we may need for the rest of this night."
The dice favored them, too.
3
As dawn stole thin and gray across the world, Harald, Ulf and Halldor made their way toward Hagia Sophia, since it would be well if they offered some prayers for their sinful selves, and where better than in the cathedral?
Halldor walked unsurely, mumbling that his skull was athump and he should never have left the fells and firths of Iceland. Ulf sang to himself. Harald began reckoning up everything he must do later this day, yes, even paperwork, the eternal Byzantine paperwork. But how else could you steer an empire that reached from the Balkan Mountains to the plains of Mesopotamia?
The Church of the Sacred Wisdom stood immense in both size and age above its square. How many folk through the centuries had dwelt in sight of it, and prayed and wept and been gladdened by its presence, how many lives had it seen go from puling babes to trembling grandsires? Down in dust they were, Harald thought: down in darkness and silence, forgotten utterly on the earth that had claimed them; but the emperors who raised this house, they were remembered.
Some beggars whined on the steps, not many as yet, and pulled aside rags to show their sores. He threw them small coins and went on in.
A huge serenity took him unto itself. Marble glimmered underfoot and up the walls, between dimly visible pillars, to the galleries. Above eight porphyry columns, the main dome arched so high that it seemed a lesser Heaven, where the wings of angels went whispering. Stiff and stern, Apostles and saints and Christ Lord of All watched those few mortals who had crept in here for the early service. Gold, silver, rubies, emeralds, diamonds cast back what light there was, like stars in yonder firmament. Below, candles were like distant, welcoming hearth-fires. The air hung chill, heavy with incense.
Truly the glory of God dwelt here, thought Harald; and yet it was men that had built this thing, men who sweated and laughed and scratched after fleas, drank, fornicated, married, begot, fretted about money, sneezed, farted, shivered when winter cold bit their bones, aged, died as untidily as men always die . . . No, he thought anew, the work was not theirs, they had been no more than tools of the Imperial workmen, who were the true builders. Was that right? Seen from eternity, had Justinian and his successors been, themselves, tools . . . maybe not the best in the Master Craftsman's kit? Harald cast that monkish question from him.
Those present for the Mass were mostly humble folk, huddled close together. Apart from them stood one family that appeared rich. There were no seats, nor an altar to be seen: only a low rail before the ikonostasis, though that screen of carven stone was amply- fair to behold.
The three silver doors in it opened as a choir broke into song. The Mass that followed was not like the Catholic rites of home, but by now Harald had attended enough that were Orthodox to feel at ease with them, even when he must prostrate himself.
This one, however, did not lave his spirit as he had hoped; his mind was too busy with plans and rivalries.
Afterward, leaving, he passed near the family he had spied within. Those persons and their attendants walked aloofly, in gorgeous garb, though somehow they seemed less haughty than most nobles. A young girl joined them, come down from the curtained galleries where women worshiped out of the sight of men. Despite her heavy robes and veil, Harald was struck b
y how gracefully she moved and by her dark, lustrous eyes. He stopped to watch from the stairs until she had entered a waiting litter and was borne off.
"Who were those?" he asked.
Ulf shrugged. "High-born folk, but I've never seen them before. No doubt they live outside the city."
It might only be that his head was a little strange after so much carousing, but Harald remembered the girl for a long time.
Chapter V:
Of Harald and Gyrgi
1
The next spring troops were ordered to Syria, where border warfare with the Saracens had grown unduly troublesome. They included a large Varangian corps under Harald. In this he suspected the hand of John, who was suspicious of the Norseman's friendship with Novgorod and thus anxious to get him out of Constantinople. Harald was not unpleased; he had grown restless from a winter of dull guard duty and duller court functions, while the campaign to come offered good chance of booty.
The host went south across Anatolia, through green valleys, crossing ruddy mountain crags, rich fields and richer towns. This countryside was peaceful; even the lowliest peasant looked well fed. Though every commoner must keep weapons and be skilled in their use against a day of need, Halldor remarked how none went armed. "And at home a man takes a spear along when he goes to fetch in the cows."
"That's due to the Imperial guards and police," Harald said., "What a power the Emperor has, to keep men reined in over so many miles!"
Halldor scowled. "The power of armies. Weapons or no, these folk are at the mercy of the court. I like it not."
"One king, one power will make Miklagardh the mightiest realm on earth," Harald argued. "At home we rip each other asunder."
"Yet we may still sneeze without a royal by-your-leave," the Icelander snapped, and edged his horse away.
Indeed, Harald thought, the regular army of New Rome embodied strength. Each man of any sort, scutatus, archer, whatever he might be, was outfitted like his fellows; foot soldiers marched in step like an iron caterpillar, the highway smoked with dust under a thousand boots that struck it at once. But the heart of the army was the cataphract, the heavy lancer, sheathed in steel on a great horse that wore its own armor. When a line of those men charged, the earth shook, and the air thundered, and few stood firm before them. Light cavalry trotted on the wings, bows ready to hand. Then the war engines came trundling, catapults, mangonels, siege towers knocked down to carry in wagons; and the hospital corps and the quartermasters and a supply train followed all, snaking back farther than he could see. Lanceheads rose and fell, a wave went along them like the ripple in a wheatfield, banners burned above the dust.
In Christ's name, he thought, to have such an instrument for his own!
The land sloped downward as days went by, until they were in the lower hills. There they met the main Byzantine host, and tents bloomed for miles around.
Harald went among the campfires to the great embroidered pavilion of the Archestrategos, Georgios Maniakes, who had already made a name for himself as a bold and cunning leader. Admitted past the guards, Harald entered, canvas brushing his head, and bowed to the man who sat behind a table poring over lists.
"Ah . . . Captain Araltes." Georgios nodded curtly. He was a stocky man with a proud dark face, his garments rough and simple. "I only wished to know if you've anything to report of your march hither. Sickness? Incidents?"
Harald bristled but said, "Nothing, despotes. May I ask what your plans are now?"
"We'll follow the Euphrates south into Syria, toward Aleppo. There's a considerable enemy force in that direction which I hope to engage. If we can break them, the country lies open for us and we can teach those bastards a lesson they much need. As for you, your Varangians will be on the right wing. See my aide Bardas about the details." He returned to his papers. "You may go. We march at dawn tomorrow."
Harald left, gnawing his anger. That he, a king's son, should be so dismissed by a mere noble! He swore to get his own back somehow.
The army traveled a few days without event. Then came a rainstorm, a wild sluicing downpour which choked the ravines with brown water and mired the wagons axle-deep. Harald soon gave up trying to keep himself dry, and when his horse began to shudder with weariness he went afoot like his men. "A cold camp tonight," said Ulf. "I've no hankering to sleep in a puddle and wake with a running nose."
"Let's see if we can get on high ground," said Harald.
Toward evening the rain stopped. Ahead of them rose a hill crowned with cedars, and the word was passed among the captains that this would be their campsite. "There's not room for many on top," Ulf grumbled. He glanced back at the Varangians, tiredly squelching through the mud. "It galls me that we must camp wet while the Greeks take the dry ground."
Harald skinned his teeth in a grin. "Well," he said, "we've longer legs than they do. Hop to it, lads!"
Laughter barked from the bearded, sun-darkened faces as his order went down the ranks. Mail clashed, axes bobbed; the Northmen broke into a trot. They passed the van, ignoring frantic trumpets, and climbed the hill in a rush. They were staking their tents and kindling their fires among the trees when Georgios Maniakes himself galloped up with an escort.
His big-nosed features were furious under the helmet. "You, there!" he shouted at Harald. "This is the place for the Archestrategos and his corps. Get down below."
Harald strolled over to him and stood with eyes not much below the rider's. An ax dangled loosely in his hand. One by one his men drifted nearer, hefting their weapons.
"Why, I'm sorry, despotes," said Harald blandly, "but we came here first."
"And I am your leader," said Georgios.
Harald kept his tone steady.
"When you come first to a camping place, you take it and we must pitch where we can. Now you may do likewise this time. I think it's ever been the right of the Varangians to steer their own affairs freely and be under none but the Emperor and Empress."
"Not in my army," said Georgios through taut lips.
"These men follow me, " Harald rapped. "I were a strange chief if I sent them back to lie in the muck."
They disputed for a while with growing heat. The Varangians growled and closed in, the Greeks clapped hands to their swords. Harald wondered if there would be a fight. In his present mood, he would not regret that.
An older Byzantine officer urged his horse forward. "Despotes," he said anxiously. "Good sirs, who are we supposed to be at quarrel with? Surely the Devil has joy of this."
"Joy of him!" Georgios pointed at Harald with a shaking hand. His face was red. Harald's had whitened, as ever when he was angered.
"But there must be a way to arbitrate." The officer looked small in his gilt mail, there under the cedars and the gathering dusk. "We are Christian men. Let God decide."
"I think God has more on His mind than where Gyrgi is going to sleep tonight," said Harald.
"God looks after all things, despotes. If we drew lots . . ."
Georgios swallowed, "I am yielding my rights," he said thickly. "But Hell take it, I've no men to waste on you overgrown children. Let it be by lot, then, and whoever wins shall have first choice of campsites throughout this campaign."
Harald muttered agreement. His mind raced; it would not be good for his standing among the Varangians if he now lost.
The old officer got two dice and a grease pencil. "May each mark his, sirs, and I'll draw one."
Harald leaned close to Georgios. "Let me see what you put on yours so I do not mark mine likewise," he said.
The Archestrategos scrawled a pi on his lot and gave the pencil to the Norseman, whose big hand hid what he placed on his own die. Both were cast into a folded cloak. The officer tumbled them about. "Whosever this be," he said, "shall go first in the ranks and have first pick of night quarters." He drew one forth.
"Let me see that!" Harald snatched it from him, glanced at it, and threw it into the downhill gloom, all in one movement. "I won," he said. "That was ours."
&nbs
p; "Why did you not let the rest of us see it?" Georgios demanded.
Harald shrugged. "Look at the one remaining," he said. "It bears your mark."
Georgios gasped. "Do you believe ... me ... so stupid . . ." His glance fell on the burly Varangians. "Very well," he said in a flat voice. He wheeled his horse and trotted downhill with his men. Laughter followed him the whole way.
Halldor rubbed his chin and murmured, "Yon Gyrgi is a man."
2
There were many battles that summer. When Greeks and Varangians were separated, Harald led his men forward as boldly as he could. But when they fought together, he saw no reason for thinning the ranks of lads who trusted him, to the glory of Georgios Maniakes, and held back as much as possible, going to those points where the danger seemed least. Presently the Byzantine troops grumbled that Araltes was a more successful commander than their own. At last Georgios summoned Harald to his tent. The Norseman came armed, and a number of men stood close by outside.
A guttering lamp outlined Georgios' bony face against the night. His fingers drummed on the tabletop and for a while he sat silent.
"You are an insolent one," he began.
"I am a king," said Harald.
"Only at home, if then." Georgios watched him moodily. "But I thought you came hither to serve His Sacred Majesty."
"So I did. Not to serve anyone else."
"Well ... I could make formal complaint against you." Georgios stared out the tent opening, into the Syrian darkness. "But these are evil times and the Empire needs every sword. Since you and I have so many quarrels, it might be best if our troops parted."
"It might indeed," said Harald. He could not altogether hide the eagerness that sprang forth in him.
Georgios broke into one of his rare smiles. "Well, I shall issue such an order, then. In a way, I must admire your willfulness. Bootlickers are too common among us."