One last time, the Master of Ceremonies forced me onto my belly while in a loud voice, pitched above all the roaring and rumbling, he announced me. And then—and I know no one will believe this but I swear it is true—he tapped me on the back with his staff, and I looked up and up and up. And the Throne of Solomon was floating, unsupported, near the ceiling, twenty feet above my head. The man’s lips curved in a little smile. How many times, I suppose, he had watched barbarian simpletons like me astonished by this magic. But was it magic? Could this Emperor truly command the power of a god greater than Black-Browed Odin and all the rest of them put together? What else could I think? But no, no, a small voice inside me said. No. There is a trick to it. I looked hard and could see no ropes or chains—nothing. But something moves it, I told myself, and if I live long enough I may learn its secret.
“You may address His Majesty,” the Master of Ceremonies commanded.
I backed away until I was touching the curtain and could, at that angle, at least see the Emperor’s distant face. And in my loudest voice I bellowed my little speech in Greek, garbling it, forgetting half of it. After a few moments of this sorry performance, the Master of Ceremonies motioned me to silence and led me out.
4
An Unexpected Visitor
That night I sat in my room downing a jug of wine while young Piotr snored in a corner. Images of this extraordinary day swirled in my mind, but there was no particular direction to my thoughts. The excitement had worn off, leaving me depressed. Psellus had disappeared after the audience. Stavko and some of his mates had taken me to their lodgings in Saint Mamas for dinner. It was meant to be a celebration, but I wasn’t in the mood for it—what was there to celebrate, after all?—and soon excused myself. I was just thinking about going to sleep when there came a blow upon my door like a battering ram. The door flew open and there stood Harald. His huge bulk filled the door frame. Gods, he was even bigger than I remembered! He must have grown another two inches, and was deeper in the chest. He towered head and shoulders over me. His height was what you always noticed about him first. From the time I first saw him as a fifteen-year-old at the Battle of Stiklestad, he was taller than anyone else around, a child who looked like a grown man and was expected to behave like one. It had shaped his character, made him a bully and a braggart. What was he now, twenty-three? Two years younger than me. He looked a lot older. His long yellow mustaches hung to his chest like walrus tusks.
And he was in a rage.
“I knew it was you, Tangle-Hair, no mistaking that ugly face. Why have you taken a new name? What is all this about?” He thrust himself inside, stooping under the lintel.
“You!” I took a step backward, my hand on my dagger hilt. I could hardly breathe.
“What, didn’t see me there, standing right by the throne? Well, you had a lot to distract you. You like their little tricks? Oh, the Greeks are full of tricks.” He laughed harshly.
All I could think of to say at that moment was, “How does it fly?”
He blinked in surprise. “What, the throne? How the devil should I know? Who cares how it flies? That’s not what I’m here to talk about.” His voice was thick with drink and anger. Piotr woke up with a cry and was trying to make himself small in the corner. Harald banged a fist on my table, making the cups jump. “Sit down, Tangle-Hair.” He sat himself down opposite me and glowered. “Ambassador from Yaroslav? Liar! I’ve paid that old fool too well, he wouldn’t betray me. No, I smell the wife here. Inge sent you, didn’t she? To barter away my bride—and what else? Kill me? By God, of course! That’s why you’re here. Well, here I am. You’ll never have a better chance.” He leveled his stone-gray eyes at me. “Shall we fight now? Or what did you have in mind? A knife in the back? An arrow through the window? Or poison? Come now, that’s not your style, Tangle-Hair, I know you too well, you’re no assassin. And you deserve a better mistress than Ingigerd.”
While he talked my thoughts raced. If I fight him now, with my shoulder almost useless, he’ll kill me for sure, and I’ll join my dead ones in Hel with my vengeance untaken. No, I must wait. I must plan. In the meantime, I must speak softly and think how I will kill him. But am I an assassin truly, a snake that crawls on its belly and strikes from cover? Suddenly I didn’t like the feeling.
He brought his face close to mine and studied me as though he was reading my thoughts. He took a deep breath through his nostrils. “How does Inge know about me?”
I explained about the Norseman who was traveling in our convoy from Novgorod, posing as a merchant. How Stavko had recognized him as the one who had brought a casket of gems to Yaroslav and a bundle of letters addressed to Yelisaveta, which he had mistakenly given to Ingigerd instead. Which was why I was here now.
“Ulf, that idiot,” Harald snarled. “I’ll have the balls off him! And how much has she paid you to kill me? Not enough, I’m sure.”
She had promised me five thousand grivny, enough to send me home to Iceland a rich man, in exchange for Harald’s head pickled in a barrel. I shrugged and said nothing.
He stroked his mustaches and smiled sourly. “I’ve never understood why that woman hates me, prefers sniveling Magnus to me just because he was King Olaf’s bastard and I only the half-brother. But you don’t hate me do you, Tangle-Hair? I mean why should you? Old comrades like us!” He slapped the table.
It seemed that he had forgotten, or wanted to pretend he’d forgotten, how he had given me up to be tortured at the bishop’s tribunal. How typical.
“Well, goddammit, if we aren’t going to draw our swords right now, let’s have a drink.” He helped himself to the jug, swirled the wine in his mouth and spat it out on the floor. “How do you drink this piss? Look, dine with me tomorrow in our barracks. The provender’s better than what you’re getting here. And we’ve got women, too—Greek, Armenian, African, whatever’s your pleasure. Hah! I expect it’s been a while since you’ve plowed Ingigerd’s furrow. How was she in bed, Tangle-Hair? I always wondered. Give you orders? Touch me here, kiss me there? Ha, ha.”
I said nothing. He wasn’t actually so far off the mark.
“Come, Tangle-Hair, let us be friends again. I don’t want us to fight.” Now he looked at me narrowly. “I heard you speak Greek today. Very impressive. I can’t get my tongue around the filthy language any more than I could Slavonic. I needed you then—before you decided to take up with Inge, that is. I might need you again. Odd, you can’t imagine how much wealth there is here, ripe for the taking, and I am going to take as much as I can, and if you don’t do the same, you’re a fool. Money! Money’s the thing. Being the half-brother of a king means nothing if I have no gold to buy allegiance. Money will buy me fair Yelisaveta. Money will buy me Norway.”
“You were always greedy, Harald.”
He laughed again. “I make no bones of it. I know my worth down to the last silver penny. Any man who doesn’t is an ass.” Despite not liking my wine, he poured himself some more and watched me over the rim of the cup. We were both silent for a moment. Then, “Your hands,” he said. He grabbed my wrist and pushed up my sleeve. “Damn me, where have you been and had that done? All this just to pose as a Rus? Well, you’ll be right at home with the Varangians, they all have’em. Don’t care for it myself.” He was looking at the tattoos, the intricate whorls and spirals that Lyudmila, Putscha’s mother, had decorated me with when she gave me her husband’s clothes and his name—Churillo Igorevich.
I took my arm back. “I, too, had to escape,” I said. “I joined up with Yngvar and his Swedes. We fared eastwards into Serkland. It ended badly. I was—”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Sad, no doubt. Water over the dam.”
Harald was never interested in anyone else’s story. Well, I thought, let’s hear his; I’m sure it’s a good one. I asked him how he came to be here.
“Don’t mind telling you,” he grinned. He took another drink. “After that small civil war we had, when you were tossed in prison—didn’t like to do that to you
, Tangle-Hair, but, damn me, what choice did I have? And it was you who betrayed me first, you know. Anyway, glad to see you escaped, you’re a clever bastard, always said so. Well anyway, with Ingigerd back in control of things—the damned woman has more lives than a cat—well, I needed to get away, didn’t I? No friends left in Novgorod. I mean I could hardly go back to Yaroslav after calling his wife a whore, not right away anyhow. So I collected a few druzhiniks who were willing to throw in with me, we stole some horses, took whatever loose cash we found in the barracks—I suppose some of it might’ve been yours—and looted a couple of the boyars’ houses too. With the city ablaze, no one paid us any mind. Then we took off for deep woods. That was an adventure! We were in that stinking forest for weeks, working our way south, avoiding the towns where my name might be known, breaking into farmhouses when we needed food. Gangs of brigands joined up with us along the way—forest is thick with’em—and before long I commanded a small army of desperate men. And then there was the steppe to cross and bands of Pechenegs on the prowl. Oh, how they would’ve loved to get their hands on me, who carved their high chief in half with an ax. Thanks be to God and His Mother, we avoided’em. But it was a tiresome long way we had to go to reach the sea. Broiling in the sun by day, freezing at night, our clothes turning to rags. Had to toss away most of the silver we’d stolen. Horses all eaten up by ourselves or the wolves. Finally, we reached the coast near Kherson. With the little money we had left, I bought us new clothes and presented myself to the governor of the place, calling myself Nordbrigt, Prince of Norway. From then on things improved. The governor signed us on as marines to protect a merchant convoy bound for Miklagard, even gave me a letter of introduction to George Maniakes, the general, who was on his way to retake Edessa from the Saracens. I don’t like to brag, you know me, but before long I was promoted captain of a bandon—a company—and had gathered enough loot to pay for my commission in the Varangians, which isn’t cheap, I can tell you. After that, why, they sent me to Jerusalem, escorting a team of masons to restore the Church of the Holy Sepulcher there. I bathed in the Jordan, Tangle-Hair, though I don’t expect a heathen like you to care about that, and came back with a shipload of relics that I sold for a fortune. And that just about brings us to the present.”
I’m sure most of this was true. Say what you want about Harald, there was never a better soldier. “And those druzhiniks who escaped with you,” I asked, “are they in the Guard too?”
Harald shrugged. “Some got killed, some drifted away. They weren’t worth much; I soon parted company with them.” He pushed his hair aside and showed me a long, wine-colored scar on his forehead. “Saracen ghazi cut me with his saber, fighting around Edessa. I broke his neck. Scars—I’ve got quite a collection. He leaned toward me, peering. “You seem to have come through life with a whole skin.”
This made me even angrier. “They’re on my back, Harald. A slaver’s lash.”
“But none in battle?”
I would not mention my wounded shoulder: never show an enemy your weakness. “I’ve been lucky,” I said.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Luck’s a great thing, may it never fail you, Odd Tangle-Hair.” He stood up suddenly. “Until tomorrow. Our barracks is in Saint Mamas. Get one of your Rus friends to show you the way. We have some Icelanders in the Guard, good fighters and good poets, except for Ulf, that is, who’s a blockhead. You’ll want to meet’em. And after that, if you’ve still a mind to kill me … well, we’ll see.”
And with that he was gone.
I sat staring at the empty doorway. I wanted to get drunk, but Harald had drained the jug. In a sudden fit of rage I flung it against the wall with all my strength. Pieces flew everywhere. Piotr, crouching in his corner, cried out in fear. I went over and stroked the boy’s head, then threw myself down and wrapped myself in my covers. My brain teemed. Did I still hate Harald? Yes, with a cold anger. He would not even admit that he had wronged me and ask my pardon. But could I kill him with honor—or at all—surrounded by all his men? How simple it had sounded when I was a thousand versts away. Well, I would have to accept his invitation to dinner and see what I was up against. The old proverb came to my mind: The foolish man lies awake all night thinking of his problems. When the morning comes he is worn out, and his problems are still there.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
5
My Past Overtakes Me
Towards dawn I fell asleep and dreamt: my brother Gunnar and I up at the shieling in the sheep pasture, slaughtered sheep everywhere, huge white masses, gushing blood, and my sister Gudrun screaming and screaming, men without faces surrounding her as she lay helpless in the grass as I try to run toward her, my legs like lead, not moving. Too late. Too late. And now her screams become the screams of little Ainikki, the girl from Kalevala whom I loved. Too late. Again too late! Her savaged head on a stake, and next to it, it seems to me, my mother’s head. How can that be? And then our house—the walls a mass of flame, the roof exploding, my mother’s hair afire, my brother bleeding out his life on the floor. And me running, running. Run away Odd, run! That’s what you always do. The voice of my father. I turn and draw my sword. And a huge warrior charges at me out of the smoke. Harald! I strike at him but my arm is boneless, my blade slides away, useless, as he throws back his head and laughs at me.
I wrenched myself awake and lay gasping for breath, the sweat pouring from me. Piotr was watching me from his corner, his eyes like saucers; I must have cried out in my sleep. After that, the hours crept by. I sat with my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth, unable to shake off the feeling of despair that my dream had stirred in me. It was Midsummer’s Day, warm and sunny, with people carousing in the streets, dancing and jumping over bonfires. I let Piotr go out and enjoy himself while I sat alone at the window until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Our room was beginning to feel like a prison. There was no one else at the hostel I shared a language with. At last, I dressed and went out to look for Stavko.
After wandering about for half the day I finally found him in the big, crowded slave market near Saint Mamas harbor: touching the women, fondling them, haggling over prices.
“Odd Tang … Churillo, I mean, Churillo, over here.” Chuckling and spitting, he folded me in a woolly bear hug and kissed my cheeks. So good to see you. Ah. The Imperial audience. What excitement! And what have you been doing since then?” His eyes narrowed. “You have seen Harald maybe?”
“I’ve seen him. Last night. He came looking for me at the hostel.”
“So our little plan is working, eh? We draw him into the open, we cut off his head!” He chopped the air with his arm and grinned wetly.
“Stavko, I’m not sure I can.”
“Eh? I can’t hear you, too noisy here. Come with me, we’ll drink some wine.” I followed him to a wine shop nearby; it was nearly empty at that time of day. “Now what do you mean you can’t?” Dismay, reproach in his little slivers of eyes.
“He’s too well protected. You were right, he’s a Varangian Guardsman, a captain of a company, no less. How am I to get at him? I’ll be cut to pieces before I get close.”
He leaned back from the table and fingered his scrappy beard. “There are always ways, my friend. We’ll hire cutthroats, ambush him somewhere.”
“No. no, not like that.”
He made a noise with his lips. “This is no time for scruples, Churillo. Listen to me. If you don’t kill him, Ingigerd won’t give up. She will send someone else, keep trying until finally someone succeeds, but you won’t have your reward, which, I remind you, is a big one. You want to go home before enemies of your family die of old age, yes? Then we must think. Where can you meet him again?”
“I’m invited to their barracks tonight.”
“Excellent! You scout them out, eh?”
“I suppose so. Tell me about these Varangians, Stavko. Who are they, how many?”
He took a drink and drew his sleeve across his lips. “Vladimir the Great, Yaroslav’s fa
ther, after he converted to True Faith, gave present of six thousand mercenaries, all Rus and Northmen—mostly Swedes—to Emperor Basil Bulgar-Slayer. Many years ago this was.”
“Six thousand?”
“Oh, but not so many nowadays. Five or six hundred, I think. Not everyone can join. Very expensive. ‘Emperor’s Wineskins’ they are called. Pampered. Better paid than regular troops. Wherever Emperor goes, they go too. Stand closest to his throne. They are divided into six banda of about one hundred men. One bandon a week does sentry duty in palace and sleeps at Brazen Gate. Others stay in barracks here in Saint Mamas, not far from us, living like kings, so people say. And young Harald already commands a bandon? Not bad.” He made a face.
“Who commands the whole Guard?”
“The Commandant is Swede named Sveinn Gudleifsson. Old, fat, rich, doesn’t stir himself much anymore but has powerful friends. No one goes up against him.”
The Varangian Page 3