Also by Bruce Macbain
Odin’s Child: Book One of Odd Tangle-Hair’s Saga
The Ice Queen: Book Two of Odd Tangle-Hair’s Saga
Roman Games: A Plinius Secundus Mystery (Book 1)
The Bull Slayer: A Plinius Secundus Mystery (Book 2)
THE VARANGIAN
A NOVEL
BRUCE MACBAIN
Copyright © 2016 Bruce Macbain
All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. While some of the characters and incidents portrayed here can be found in historical accounts, they have been altered and rearranged by the author to suit the strict purposes of storytelling. The book should be read solely as a work of fiction.
For information, contact
Blank Slate Press at 4168 Hartford Street, Saint Louis, MO 63116
www.blankslatepress.com
www.brucemacbain.com
Blank Slate Press is an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover and Interior Illustrations by Anthony Macbain
Cover and Interior Layout by Kristina Blank Makansi
Set in Adobe Caslon Pro and Viking
Library of Congress Control Number:
ISBN: 9781943075249
To Carol with love and gratitude
THE VARANGIAN
Cast of characters
VARANGIANS
Bolli Bollason: Icelander, son-in-law of Snorri-godi
Gorm Rolfsson: Swede, brother of Glum the berserker
Halldor Snorrason: Icelander, son of Snorri-godi
Harald Sigurdsson: half-brother to Saint Olaf, later king of Norway
Sveinn Gudleifsson: Commandant of the Varangian Guard
Ulf Ospaksson: a Varangian from Iceland
GREEKS (Members of the Imperial household)
Constantine IX Monomachus: Emperor (1042 – 1055), Zoe’s third husband
Constantine Paphlagon: a eunuch, Commander in Chief of the army; John’s brother
George Paphlagon: a eunuch in charge of the Imperial wardrobe; John’s brother
John Paphlagon: a eunuch, Guardian of Orphans
Maria Paphlagon: sister of John, Constantine, and Michael IV; mother of Michael V
Michael IV Paphlagon: Emperor (1034-1041), Zoe’s second husband
Michael V Calaphates: Emperor, (1041-1042), son of Maria and Stephen
Romanus III Argyrus: Emperor (1028-1034), Zoe’s first husband
Sclerena: mistress of Constantine IX
Stephen: “The Caulker”, husband of Maria, father of Michael V
Theodora: former nun, then Empress reigning jointly with Zoe
Zoe Porphyrogenita: Empress (1028-1050), daughter of Constantine VIII
OTHER GREEKS
Alexius: Patriarch of Constantinople
Alypius: a wealthy citizen of Constantinople
Constantine (Michael) Psellus: bureaucrat, historian, orator and teacher
Eustathius: Logothete (minister of the post and foreign affairs)
George Maniakes: general
Loucas: an orphan, one of John’s spies
Melampus: an alchemist, father of Selene
Olympia: Psellus’s wife
Selene: Odd’s wife
RUS
Ingigerd: wife of Grand Prince Yaroslav of Kievan Rus
Stavko Ulanovich: a Rus slave trader
Vladimir Yaroslavich: son of Yaroslav and Ingigerd
Yaroslav Vladimirovich: Grand Prince of Kievan Rus
Yelisaveta Yaroslavna: daughter of Yaroslav and Ingigerd, later wife of Harald
OTHERS
Arduin: a leader of the Italian Lombards
Gizur Isleifsson: priest, older brother of Teit Isleifsson
Moses the Hawk: Khazar captain of Maniakes’s bodyguard
Snorri-godi: powerful Christian Icelandic chieftain, enemy of Odd’s father
Stig No One’s Son: vagabond, viking, Odd’s mentor
Teit Isleifsson: a young deacon, the recorder of Odd’s saga
William de Hauteville: a Norman freebooter
Contents
Prologue
Part One
1 Golden Miklagard
2 I Am a Barbarian
3 The Throne of Solomon
4 An Unexpected Visitor
5 My Past Overtakes Me
6 A Visit to the Perfumery
7 Zoe’s Tale †
8 Games [Odd resumes his narrative]
9 Too Many Questions
10 John’s Tale
11 I Am Found Out [Odd resumes his narrative]
12 I Become a Spy
13 Friendship and a Warning
14 The Alchemist
15 I Take a Wife
16 From Barbarian To Greek
17 A Barbarian Once More
Part Two
18 I Go to War
19 Selene’s Tale
20 Nearly Caught [Odd resumes his narrative]
21 Siege
22 Psellus’s Tale
23 The Last Man in the World
24 Too Clever by Half
25 Among the Saracens
26 Selene’s Tale
27 The Battle of Troina
28 Calaphates’s Tale
29 Zoe’s Tale
30 An End At Last
Part Three
31 Returned from the Dead
32 No Sickness is Worse
33 Halldor’s Tale
34 Holding Our Breath
35 Two Sisters
36 Death of an Emperor
37 A Secret Revealed
38 Constantine Nobilissimus
39 Tempted
40 Revolt
41 A Pitiful Ending
42 The Perfumery Again
43 The General Returns
44 Where Is Harald?
45 Dream No More
46 Yelisaveta’s Tale
47 Saga’s End
Post scriptum
Author’s Note
About the Author
Prologue
Iceland, Mount Hekla Anno Domini 1080
Here begins the third book in the saga of Odd Tangle-Hair.
A year ago, Bishop Isleif, my father, brought me to this old heathen’s tumbledown farmhouse to record his reminiscences of young Prince Harald, who, as all the world knows, became King of Norway and has been dead now for over a decade. Odd served the prince as his skald in Gardariki and in Golden Miklagard when they were both young men. But where Harald went on to a life of glorious conquest and splendid fame, Odd returned years later, penniless and alone, to the ruins of his family home at the foot of this slumbering volcano. (The reason for this is still a mystery to me.) And here he has stayed, speaking to no one until my father dispatched me, much against my will, armed with food, ale, and bundles of parchment to take down the old man’s words.
This I have dutifully done, and it has been an education to me, which perhaps my father in his wisdom foresaw. For I have learned that Harald of Norway was not quite the paragon we thought he was, and that Odd Tangle-Hair, for all his violence and blasphemy, is not the monster that he first appeared to my innocent eyes. He has wrapped me in the web of his life—me, the pious young deacon—and opened to me a world I never dreamt of. It has been a long journey and we are not yet at the end of it. But, one grudging step at a time, I have come to feel for this old man—what shall I call it? Is love too strong a word? Of course, I would never say so to him.
Two weeks ago, my elder brother Gizur, who is in charge of the cathedral while our father is away in Rome, tried to drag me home. I went with
him but only long enough to replenish my supplies of ink and parchment; of ale, flatbread, and dried fish (for the poor old man lives on practically nothing). My brother gave me an angry stare as I rode away from our hall, leading the pack horses, but he didn’t try to stop me. And now here I am again, knocking on the weather-beaten door. And here is Odd, bent, sparse-haired, bleary-eyed because he seldom sleeps, but still powerful in the shoulders; still dangerous if he were pushed. With a grunt he acknowledges me and stands aside. And now, while he drains a horn of ale, and then another, and I spread out my parchment and quills in the dusty half-light, I review in my mind the story so far.
In the autumn of 1031, Odd, after many adventures, gave up the viking life and made his way to Novgorod to join Harald at the court of Prince Yaroslav the Wise and his consort, Princess Ingigerd. It didn’t take him long to realize that he had fallen into a snake pit. Ingigerd, a woman of fierce passion, had secretly loved the late King Olaf of Norway and now fostered his little son, Magnus. Olaf had died at the battle of Stiklestad and his younger half-brother Harald, only fifteen then, had barely escaped the carnage and now sought shelter at the Rus court. Prince Yaroslav—elderly, pedantic and oblivious to his wife’s feelings—welcomed Harald and honored him with a high position in his druzhina. But Ingigerd saw Harald, quite rightly, as a threat to Magnus, whom she was determined someday to place on his father’s throne. To make matters worse, Yaroslav and Ingigerd had a daughter, Yelisaveta, a headstrong, defiant girl, always battling with her mother. Harald made the foolish girl fall in love with him and claimed he would have her to wife one day. This drove Ingigerd wild and she vowed to destroy Harald. The unwitting weapon she chose was young Odd Tangle-Hair. The shameless woman seduced Odd and for two years they carried on an affair right under the noses of Yaroslav and Harald. A foolish and sinful business, but Odd was young and easily beguiled by this beautiful woman. Odd, it seems, always learns his lessons too late. Meanwhile Ingigerd tried one stratagem after another to kill Harald, all without success.
Harald was riding high until suddenly everything collapsed. Magnus was named Olaf’s successor by the Norwegian jarls and Odd’s affair with Ingigerd was exposed. Harald, feeling understandably betrayed, flung himself on Odd and tried to kill him. Novgorod erupted in civil war. Ingigerd’s enemies among the Rus boyars seized this opportunity to attack her, while her Swedish kinsman, Yngvar, and his warriors defended her. Odd was thrown into prison and Harald escaped in the confusion with everything he could steal. In the end, Odd too managed to escape. Taking the identity of Churillo Igorevich, he joined Yngvar’s expedition to the East. Sadly, it ended in disaster and Odd spent four bitter years as a slave of the Mohammedans, chained to a Greek sailor. The only good he got of it was that he learned to speak this man’s language.
Finally, in 1037, at Kiev, where he was brought by his master, Odd slipped his chain. And who should be in Kiev, Yaroslav’s new capital, but Ingigerd, once again securely on her throne and as determined as ever to destroy Harald. For Harald, it appeared, had made his way to Miklagard where he joined the illustrious Varangian Guard. Now, he was sending rich gifts to Yaroslav and love letters to their daughter. Once again, Ingigerd chose Odd as her weapon. He must follow Harald to Byzantium and bring her back his head. And for this she would reward him with enough money to return to Iceland, which he had fled so long ago, to take vengeance on the murderers of his family. Odd agreed and soon he, together with Stavko Ulanovich, a slave-dealer and Ingigerd’s agent, were sailing with the Rus trading fleet to the capital of the Roman Empire.
With these words Odd takes up his story…
“Sir, if you keep looking at my eyes instead of the board, you will never learn a thing.
PART ONE: CONSTANTINOPLE AD 1037 - 1038
1
Golden Miklagard
The size of it! The Romans call it Constantinople, Byzantium, New Rome, or simply The City. We Norse call it Miklagard, ‘Big Town.’ How puny the words seem. As the late afternoon sun broke through the clouds, there lay spread out before me across the sparkling water a sight dazzling to the eyes: a series of rising terraces clothed in alabaster, acres of it—walls, columns, arches, steps, piled one atop the other and everywhere crowned with golden domes, touched to sudden life by the fire from above.
It was all true, those boasts of Leonidas, the Greek sea captain I had spent four years chained to; and I had thought he was a liar or just crazy. But no words could have prepared me for this, just as no words of mine are big enough for it now. The sight of it came like rain to my barren spirit. Curiosity and wonder—feelings I had forgotten I possessed—stirred in me again like seeds in the damp earth. To walk those avenues, to enter those cool marble towers and hear the whisper of silk along their secret corridors…
After weeks of rowing down the Dnieper and across the sea with our cargo of furs, honey, wax, caviar, and hides, the Rus fleet of a hundred river boats flanked by Greek warships, sailed past the twin guard towers and into the Golden Horn—a long, winding inlet, a kind of fjord, that divides the city proper from the hinterland. Our destination was the Harbor of Saint Mamas on the northern shore of the Horn. For only here, according to treaty, were we Rus allowed to camp. I say ‘we’ because I was one of them now: gospodin Churillo Igorevich of Novgorod; dressed in a fur hat with a red tassel, a long blue coat, wide striped trousers tucked into soft red leather boots, and a pigeon-blood ruby in my ear. From my belt hung a fat purse of gold and in my hand I held a letter from Yaroslav the Wise naming me his boyar and ambassador to the court of his dear ‘brother’ Michael, Emperor of the Romans. I was empowered to negotiate a marriage for his daughter Yelisaveta—a marvel of beauty, prudence, and affability—with some lucky Greek princeling. Needless to say, all this had been concocted by Ingigerd without `Wise’ Yaroslav being any the wiser. She counted on rumor of my business reaching Harald’s ears, wherever he might be, and bringing him out in the open. Then all I had to do was kill him.
All along the quay our boats—dugouts hollowed from a single giant tree trunk—were tying up and unlading in front of a crowd of curious onlookers. The Greeks never tired of watching us—we fearsome, shaggy savages of the North, who three times in their history had attacked them from the sea and nearly captured their city. For this reason, though our trade goods were welcome, we were closely guarded, confined to one region of the city, and disarmed before being allowed ashore.
“Eh? Eh? Odd Tang—excuse me, Chu rillo…” Stavko winked hugely, laughed with a spray of saliva, and shook his head so that the lead balls swung at the ends of his greasy braids. The slave trader was to be my guide, my minder, my go-between with Ingigerd. “Eh? Does Stavko exaggerate? You are impressed?”
I wouldn’t tell him so. The man gave me the shivers. He clapped me on the shoulder, then quickly pulled back his hand, seeing me wince. “Sorry, gospodin. How is wound?”
We had sailed into a Pecheneg ambush on the river a week ago, and I’d taken an arrow in my right shoulder. It was still plenty sore and I couldn’t raise my arm above my head.
“Well, gospodin, I go see to the gifts. Such treasures we are bringing to Emperor! Then we—”
“I say, who’s in charge here?” The words were in heavily accented Slavonic. “I’m looking for your, ah, voi—voivode.” He stumbled over the word for commander. I looked around the crowd to see who had spoken and saw a slender young man—nineteen or twenty, I guessed—pushing his way through the crowd with a couple of soldiers in tow. His skin was olive, his eyes black under heavy brows that met in the middle; his head was round as a nut and covered with short brown bristles that extended downward over his cheeks, chin, and throat. His ears were large. He had a twitchy expression that reminded me of a squirrel. He was clearly some sort of official: his collar, belt, and cape indicated that much, even to a stranger like me.
Vyshata Ostromirovich, who was our commodore, turned round and looked down on the little fellow. “Who by the Devil’s mother are you? They send me someone ne
w?”
“Constantine Psellus, sir, Office of Barbarians …”
“Whoever.” Vyshata turned away to scream abuse at a couple of sailors who had dropped a cask of mead.
The young man scowled, bounced on the balls of his feet, looked around for someone else to address. Behind his back one soldier grinned at the other. I stepped forward and introduced myself in Greek.
“What? A barbarian speaks our language?” He blinked in surprise.
“I do, sir.” (Calling him kyrios in Greek, as Leonidas had taught me to do.) “Of a rough sort, anyway. I am Prince Yaroslav’s ambassador, come to offer the hand of his daughter to a suitable noble youth.”
“What’s that? We had no idea, no one told us you were coming.”
“I think it was a sudden decision.”
He scowled again—to cover his nervousness, I supposed. A junior official suddenly confronted with a situation above his pay grade. “Well, the Logothete must be informed at once and you will accompany me to the hostel, the ambassadors’ lodgings.”
“Gladly,” I smiled and we gripped forearms. For such a small fellow his grip was surprisingly strong. And that is how I met Psellus, who would change my life.
“Have you a man servant?” he asked.
I indicated Piotr, who was standing nearby, with his hair, as usual, in his eyes.
“Then come along both of you.” Psellus plunged into the crowd without looking back. It was a characteristic of his that I came to know well: he bustled everywhere as though he were perpetually late for an appointment. A young man in a hurry, I thought to myself. He led us to a small boat, very prettily painted, that was tied up some distance down the quay. The rowers raised their oars in salute when they saw us approaching.
“We’re crossing the Horn,” Psellus called over his shoulder. The hostel is near the Great Palace.”
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