The Varangian

by Bruce Macbain

  And we marched into a ravaged city, where the smell of death hung heavy. Syracuse was a city of staring eyes and swollen bellies and skeletal arms. The Arab population hid in their houses, but the Greeks met us with one continual wild cheer. They stretched their hands to heaven, brought out the holy icons and relics that had lain hidden for years and waved them in the air. Delirious throngs capered through the streets, dancing, banging on drums or old pots or anything. Church bells rang. Flocks of carrion birds and clouds of blowflies, affrighted by the racket, rose up indignantly from their banquet of flesh.

  Maniakes wanted to spare the city any more suffering, but Harald demanded the right of pillage for his men. We raced through the Emir’s palace in a frenzy of looting (I, too, as well as I could manage on my crutch). It was a sprawling place of arches and colonnades, latticed windows, fountains, and tiled courtyards. We broke into the harem, but found no one there save a few cowering eunuchs. The women seemingly had slipped out into the city crowd where they would be safe. After more searching, we found the treasure room. Sacks of gold dinars and silver dirhams, ropes of pearls, baskets of gems, bales of silk. Harald had it all carried out under guard. For a few heady days we imagined ourselves as rich as kings.

  Aside from the palace, Maniakes would allow no pillaging by our troops. But it was a harder thing to keep the Greek population from taking revenge on their Saracen neighbors. Shops were looted, a mosque was burned, each dawn revealed a fresh crop of bodies strangled or stabbed.

  During those next days, as order was restored, I explored this city that we had shed so much blood to capture. Once it must have been one of the great cities of the world. Wherever you looked you saw the ruins of what ancient kings had built—temples to their gods, theaters, stadiums, baths. Those ancient pagans all vanished now, leaving it to the followers of Mohammed and Christ to fight over the remains like two dogs tearing at the carcass of a noble steed.

  Wandering about with Gorm one day, I found the library. The entrance was heaped with trash and bricks where part of the cornice had fallen, but it was unguarded so we made our way inside. Long, dim corridors seemed to stretch for miles, lined with books and scrolls. I stood astonished. I touched a volume, thumbed the dust off the binding and read the title. It was an author I’d never heard of. I felt very small here. In ten lifetimes, I could not absorb so much learning, and that made me think of Melampus and of Psellus. And that made my heart throb with something between sorrow and anger. Gorm was complaining that the dust made him sneeze, and so we left.

  Maniakes’s first job was to get food into the city, care for the injured, and bury the dead to avoid pestilence. This took a week. Then it was time to celebrate our triumph. He paraded all the men and the ships’ crews and, after interminable prayers of thanksgiving to God and various saints, he distributed the spoils. Alas, what had seemed like a fortune beyond imagining when it was all heaped up in one room, now looked less when it was spread out to be divided among ten thousand men. One-third of the spoils by custom must be set aside for the Emperor. Maniakes took a full fourth for himself.

  Harald was given a sizeable sum to divide among the Emperor’s Wineskins, a share of which went to me as his skald (another large share went to Halldor, his standard-bearer.) I was also given a handsome sum by the general personally from his share as a reward for my exploit. So were Stig and Moses. Putting it all together, I wasn’t as rich as I had hoped, but I reckoned I had enough to afford a comfortable house in the city with a few servants. I had no complaints.

  But here our general made his second fatal mistake. From the shrinking pile of booty, he intended to give most to his Greeks and shortchange the allies. William the Norman, who had slain al-Thumnah single-handedly, felt insulted by his small share—a bag of silver and some not-very-attractive women. And so did Arduin, that clever, Greek-speaking Lombard noble. He had demanded, among much else, a fine Arabian stallion as a prize but Maniakes stupidly insisted that he give it up. Arduin argued with him. What happened then may be hard to believe but I saw it with my own eyes. Maniakes knocked him down, kicked him and ripped his shirt off him. Beating up Stephen was one thing—no one respected him. But Arduin? The man was well-liked and had hundreds of Lombard and Norman warriors at his back. I thought we would have to fight them then and there, but our cavalry moved in quickly and pushed them back.

  That very day, eight hundred Lombards and Normans, angry and embittered, boarded ship and sailed back to Italy. We watched them go in silence. Too late, Maniakes seemed to realize what he had done. And his remedy? To send the Varangians after them, to occupy Reggio and stiffen the small Greek force that was holding Calabria and Apulia. I believe Maniakes was looking for an excuse to rid himself of all these troublesome barbarians, including us, and this was it.

  I had thought I was on the point of going home. Now the prospect of more endless months of campaigning stretched before me. Again Harald urged me to stick with him, and again I yielded.

  I made my goodbyes.

  “Demetra, could you live with Infidels?”

  “Don’t mind as long as I’m fed,” she answered.

  “Then I pass you on to my friend Musa, who has a fine house and will give you light work to do.”

  “I will miss you. You were a good fellow, as barbarians go.” She managed to squeeze out a tear.

  “Stig, a long life and many sons.”

  “The same to you, Tangle-Hair. And I pray that when you finally get home you’ll find everything as you would wish.”

  “Thank you, Stig. We may meet again. Who knows?”

  “Inshallah,” as we say, “God willing.”

  But we didn’t. I never saw him again.

  I gripped arms with Moses. “Someday back in Constantinople, my friend.”

  And he and I would meet again, though the circumstances were bitter. He deserved a better master than Maniakes.

  The next months I will pass over quickly for they brought us no joy or profit. We had hardly established ourselves in Reggio when word came that Maniakes had been arrested and taken back to Constantinople to face a charge of treason. This was Stephen’s doing, of course. He had been hiding out all the while at the court of Duke Gaimar of Salerno. He now returned to Sicily as its governor—and with astonishing speed managed to lose Syracuse and every place else that we had fought so hard for. (We were told that he died of a fever in the course of this debacle.) Within a year the island fell once more to the Saracens, and we never got it back.

  Meanwhile we had our hands full in Italy. The Lombards and Normans, our former allies, were now our enemies and, fighting on their own ground, they were formidable. One after another, the Apennine hill towns went over to them thanks to Arduin’s powers of persuasion. A new Greek commander—another incompetent appointed by John—arrived to save the situation. His army, including our men, suffered a disaster at the River Olivento. We were driven back by the Norman horse, led by William, into the rushing waters and hundreds were drowned. I was in that battle. By now, I could bear the pain in my feet and I was ashamed to lurk behind in the tents. One who almost drowned was Gorm. He had taken a deep spear thrust in his side and was weak with loss of blood. I barely managed to drag him to shore. But many other friends of mine died. Halldor and Bolli, I’m sorry to say, came out of it unscathed. Harald was so angry and humiliated I feared he would take his own life. He’d never been beaten like this before. Two more defeats followed this, and by high summer of the year one thousand and forty all Southern Italy had gone over to the Lombards.

  But this was when our fortunes changed, Harald’s and mine. One rainy morning a ship with purple sails, flying the Emperor’s pennant, sailed into the harbor of Otranto, where we were bivouacked. A Varangian officer stepped ashore—one of those Varangians who had been left behind to guard the palace. He found Harald brooding in his tent, and with a happy smile saluted him as the new Commandant of the Varangian Guard. His orders were to return with his men to the city at once.

  This was no
t as great a surprise as you might think. Harald—seeing that there was no glory to be had in Italy—had sent a message to John, worded in Greek by me, demanding to be recalled and promoted. Of course, the Guard already had a Commandant—old, fat, gouty Sveinn Gudleifsson—a man with many friends at court. How convenient that Sveinn had just died.

  We shouted, we sang, we celebrated all day long.

  Harald insisted that we have all new clothes and arms, for we were a shabby, battle-stained bunch and he was ashamed to lead us back to Constantinople looking as we did. He paid for it all out of his own pocket like the prince he was. This occupied a few days. But, at last, we bade goodbye to our sullen Greek comrades and boarded our ships. Not as many ships as we had come out in, though. Half our number had given their bodies to the crows in this wretched country.

  What a joy it was to leave. But, as we made our way slowly back across the Aegean, battling contrary winds all the way, I slept badly and felt a nameless dread growing in me. What was I going home to?

  “Take me to my husband.” For a moment, her voice was firm, commanding, a queen’s voice.

  PART THREE CONSTANTINOPLE 1040-1043

  31

  Returned from the Dead

  July, AD 1040

  Our ships sailed into Boukoleon harbor on a brilliant morning, just as the rising sun struck fire from the gilded domes of the Great Palace. Harald had sent a small boat ahead to announce our arrival, and a platoon of Varangians was drawn up on the quay to welcome us. They had brought wagons to take our baggage, and especially our money chests, straight to the barracks. Word of our approach had spread fast and already a noisy crowd of palace officials, dock workers, and passers-by had gathered. I searched their faces. No Selene. No Psellus.

  Led by Harald and Halldor carrying the dragon standard, we shouldered our axes and marched down the gangway in perfect order. Then order dissolved as we mingled with old comrades, slapping backs and pumping arms. Some men kissed the ground.

  “Tangle-Hair,” shouted Harald over the uproar, “I’m going to the orphanage to meet with John and his brothers. I’ll need you.”

  “I’m going to look for my wife,” I said over my shoulder and, handing my ax and shield to Gorm, walked away from him.

  The sun was near its zenith by the time I had rented a horse and ridden out along the Mese to the little cluster of houses near the Gate of Charisios. The day was turning hot and I sweated in my armor. The yard was unkempt, our little garden overgrown with weeds. There was no answer to my knock. One or two neighbors stopped to gawk at me in my mail shirt and helmet and scarlet cloak; none of them came near. I pushed open the door and found myself in an empty room that smelled of mildew, the chairs tipped up against the table. In one corner, Gunnar’s baby cradle, the one I had carved for him, sat covered with dust. Of course, she’s at her father’s. I ran the short distance to Melampus’s house. But here too was only dust. The sitting room, the laboratory, deserted.

  “It’s me,” I called. “Melampus, Selene?” No answer. And then, as I was turning in bafflement to leave, I heard the chattering of a monkey coming from the kitchen. Ramesses in his tattered yellow coat. He scampered out and leapt into my arms. A moment later, Martha, Melampus’s old housekeeper, peered at me from the doorway.

  “Master Odd! Is it you? Oh, sir, it is good to see you.” Tears started in her eyes. “The doctor? He died in April, God bless his soul. Selene? Gone with that man, Alypius. Her and Gunnar. I am sorry, master, I begged her not to, but she wouldn’t listen. It’s the money, you see. After the doctor died, we hadn’t any, not a brass penny, except what she got from that man. The poor girl had no choice. They left me here—he said he had a houseful of servants and I was too old and useless. And Ramesses? He said he couldn’t abide the filthy beast. Oh, how little Gunnar cried at that. I thought his little heart’d break. Mistress left me with a few coins and said she’d come back, but she hasn’t, and they’re all gone now. So here we’ve stayed on our own these three months with not a bite to eat but what a kind neighbor can spare.”

  I was carrying a small parcel—a bracelet and cameo brooch for my wife and a book for Melampus—it fell to the floor unnoticed.

  “Who is this man? Where does he live?”

  “A rich man, an architect, handsome enough, smooth ways about him. Lives in the city, but where? They never said. Oh, I am that sorry, master Odd.”

  I pressed some silver into her hand. “Live on this until I come back.”

  I leapt on my mount and kicked it savagely to a gallop. Somewhere in this vast city is my wife. Psellus will know. He cuts off her money, passes her onto some rich friend of his. He knows where they are. I’ll beat it out of him.

  But when I pounded on Psellus’s door—it was evening now—a strange man’s face appeared, fear in his eyes. “Doesn’t live here anymore … sold this place, oh, months ago. Where? No idea. Don’t murder us, sir, I beg you.”

  I backed away, stumbling out into the shadowed street. A scream rose in my throat. I didn’t mean to, but I opened my mouth and let it out—the howl of an animal, long and high and piercing. All along the street shutters opened and then banged shut.

  After that, I scarcely knew where I went. I came to a tavern where I drank a jug of wine, and then another. Finally, I threw down some coins and stumbled out. I was too drunk to ride the horse. I left it tied up. Eventually, I found my way to the Varangian barracks and managed the stairs to the second landing—the Fourth Bandon’s quarters. Harald was still up, drinking with some of the men. He eyed me coldly.

  “Goddammit, Tangle-Hair, where the hell have you been all day? I had a meeting with John. Wanted to talk about Italy and about me being Commandant, but that’s about as much as I could understand. We had to put it off to tomorrow. You can’t do this to me.”

  I simply stood speechless, feeling all their eyes on me. One of them was Halldor, and I thought I saw a look in his eye that I would remember later—like a man suddenly struck by an idea. “Go to bed,” Harald said, “you look like shit. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  But long before Harald was awake, I was gone. To the palace. I hadn’t slept all night, and I was past caring if John’s spies saw me talking to Psellus, that little traitor.

  I burst into his office—oh, what a splendid one he had now—shoved the doorkeeper aside and went straight for him. “Tell me where she is.”

  “Tangle—!”

  His eyes bulged, I had him by the throat, pinned against the wall. Two guards ran in with their swords drawn.

  “No, don’t hurt him,” he croaked, “leave us, it’s—it’s all right.” They looked doubtful but backed out. “Odd, let me go—please.” I took a step back. Psellus rubbed his throat, red and white from my fingers. “Sit down, for God’s sake. We thought you were dead.”

  “So it seems. Where’s this man you gave my wife to?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear to you. No, don’t touch your sword, please. Calm yourself, let us talk. It … it’s good to see you.” He shut his office door, smoothed his clothing, and with a shaking hand poured wine into two goblets. “Here—and please sit down. There, that’s better.”

  I sank into a chair, suddenly overcome with weariness, and accepted the proffered goblet from this man who had betrayed me. It is my failing, that I don’t kill the people who have wronged me. There is some weakness in me. I’m not my father’s son. Black Thorvald would have cut his heart out and roasted it.

  “Selene’s gone?” he said.

  “With your rich friend Alypius. Why did you cut off her money? Why have there been no letters from her for two years?”

  “I don’t know any Alypius. And as for the money, that’s a bitter tale.” He told me in a few words how the Guardian of Orphans had cut their budget, got rid of their couriers, was now behaving like Emperor in all but name, with Michael sick in Thessaloniki.

  “But you’ve done well for yourself.” I glanced around his spacious office. “New house, too
, I gather.”

  He gave an apologetic smile and a small shrug. “Odd, how can I help you?”

  “Where do I find this man? Rich, an architect. That’s all I know.”

  “First of all, there are laws against murder in this city. You do know that, don’t you? Second of all, I don’t know who he is, but I can probably find out. The rich are few enough even in this great metropolis, and there can’t be so many architects. I venture I’ll know someone who knows someone who knows him. It may take a while. Patience isn’t one of your virtues, but try. In the meantime we have serious matters to discuss with the Logothete.”

  “I have nothing to discuss with the Logothete. I don’t need him. Here’s a piece of information you can have for free. Harald is about to be named Commandant of the Guard and I’m to be a Varangian. All thanks to John, not the Logothete.”

  Psellus sank back in his chair and sighed. “Understand this, Odd. John has the whip hand now, but that can’t last. There will be a turning point soon—very soon. When it comes, you need to be on the right side.”

  “Thank you, but from now on I’ll decide for myself which is the right side. All I want now is my wife back.”

  Psellus shook his head. “You aren’t the same man who sailed away two years ago. I liked that man better. What have you been through?”

  “What do you know about war outside the pages of Homer? Believe me, my friend, it is much nastier than that. Much crueler. And not heroic at all. That’s what I’ve been through.”

  He waved this aside. “I will tell the Logothete that you’re back, he’ll be relieved. We need you with us, Odd. None of this was his fault, believe me. We’ll be in touch with you. And I will find your wife for you, count on it. In the meantime, by all means stick close to Harald, translate for him and John—most important thing you can do for us.”