by Harold Lamb
"Blood! " Stortebecker bellowed. "Beware and yare, lads. Out with the steel."
Getting to his feet, his ax arm swinging, the Viking called, "You find a quarrel easily."
Kari, gasping at the bellow of voices, saw twenty men of Visby run to the unopened hogsheads. Ripping off the tops, they began to pull out swords, shields, battle-axes. Some of these weapons they tossed to their mates at the tables. A wailing rose among the women, and the unarmed Bergen men surged up like cattle startled by a wolf's coming.
"Steel it is," sang out Olaf, vaulting the table, and making for the hogshead.
The nearest swordsman stepped out to him, slashing at his head. Olaf checked his run, poised, braced on his feet. His ax flashed in front of him as the sword came down. This sword and the hand gripping it flew up into the air, cut off by the ax blade.
Stortebecker caught an ax from a man near him. His eyes gleamed red and he snarled as he ran at Olaf, who turned to meet him. Neither man had a shield.
Swinging his hands over one shoulder, Klas Stortebecker slashed wide with all the reach of his arms. As he did so the Viking leaped forward, inside the stroke.
His hands gripped the ax haft short and the head of the ax smashed at Stortebecker's face. The Visby chieftain bent his head, taking the blow on his skull, falling to the ground.
As he did so, his hands clutched at Olaf's legs. But the Viking, quicker than he, was away from him. A glance to right and left showed Olaf that the swordsmen were closing around him, and he leaped clear of them, back to the table.
He came running to Kari, his ax in one hand. Catching her about the knees in his right arm, he heaved her up over his shoulder, and ran on.
Behind him the bearlike Klas hauled himself up, shaking his head. "Leave the goats," he bawled. "Fetch back that strife starter."
As he ran through the Street of the Shoemakers, Olaf heard them coming after him. He headed for the barricade at the bridge, for the wall of kegs and the men-at-arms. Without slowing his pace, he thrust his ax hand on the top of the kegs and slid over. "There is a hue and cry," he called to Bode, "coming this way."
The Kontor's men stared at him bewildered, when he raced down the bridge toward his longboat. Kari's breath was squeezed out of her, and she hung fast to his swaying shoulders, until she felt him jump down into the boat. Then he lowered her to the aft deck and reached for the rope of the anchor stone.
Abruptly he stopped, staring beyond her. The brown falcon with its hoop had gone from the boat.
"Hide and hair of the Horned One!" Olaf swore. For the first time anger twisted his face, and he swung round to search the quay with his eyes. Down at the barricade voices clamored and metal crashed. Two apprentices ran out the Kontor gate with a pack of mastiff dogs. All this seemed to Olaf to have the making of a brawl, but he saw no sign of his falcon.
Taking his ax he ran into the unguarded gate of the Kontor. When he came upon stairs leading up, he took them three at a time, and so he found himself in the great meeting hall of the Kontor. And he found himself not alone-men in uniform lined the wall, waiting leaning upon staves and halberds.
Behind the table Ernst Salza sat in his high seat calmly, with a massive book before him. Behind him the hooded falcon perched on its hoop in a clerk's hand.
It seemed to Olaf that these silent men were waiting and listening. Through the window opening he could hear the disturbance on the bridge. Pushing through the attendants, he went up to take his hawk, and he spoke to it. At his voice the bird spread its wings.
But the clerk would not give up the hoop. "Achtzehuer," the man exclaimed, troubled.
Salza was listening intently-to the brawling below that had passed from the streets of the town to the quay, against his instructions. It was coming closer now, and he wanted to go to the opening to look out, but thought that he should remain at the desk, taking no notice of it. Impatiently, he turned on Olaf, snapping out words: "The Greenland falcon? The Kontor owns it."
Olaf shook his head, startled. "No-"
"Here!" Salza flung open the huge book, taking a parchment slip from between the pages. "The quittance for it." And he read swiftly: "For the value of forty farthings, more or less, paid into my hand, I, Olaf, an outlander, do sell and devise unto the Bergen Kontor of the Hansa League, a brown falcon marked with white, weighing-"
"That was never said between us-"
"Never? You signed to it." Salza nodded at the clerk. "He witnessed."
Before Olaf could answer, a rush of feet came upon the stair, and Klas Stortebecker plunged into the meeting hall with his Visby weapon men wedged behind him. When he sighted the Kontor guards along the walls, and Olaf at the desk, his broad face darkened, and he came forward slowly.
Salza, motionless, watched him without expression. "Well, Klas?"
"Ho!" the sea raider snarled. "'Tis not well, Ernst. Not with the bridge held against me, and this woodchopper holed up here."
He glared his suspicion, breathing heavily. Salza glanced from one weapon man to the other. "If you want him, Klas, take him." And quietly he drew the record book toward him.
It happened then so quickly that only Olaf saw it all. The falcon at Salza's side moved its wings, restless at the voices. And Salza thrust it away with his hand, unheeding. The hawk's beak flashed down, and Salza, with a cry of pain, struck at the falcon. The threshing hooded bird rose into the air, clawing at the man.
The talons struck into the man's head, and the falcon's beak ripped across his forehead. Jumping for them, Olaf caught the hawk beneath one wing, and pulled him clear, loosening the hood on the brown head and tossing him up. The falcon threshed and headed out the opening toward the light.
Salza screamed, throwing himself down on the table. Even Stortebecker swore at the sight, for the iron dignity of the Achtzehuer had been stripped from him. Hurt, with blood running into his eyes, he groped about the table. But he had no thought of his own pain. His fingers searched frantically for the book.
"Wait, Klas!" he cried. "I will explain-"
One hand struck the book and he caught the pages to close them. Stortebecker looked at the written page, and planted one fist on it. He had seen his own name.
The Viking backed against the wall, feeling behind him, not taking his eyes from the two at the table.
"It says St. Olaf's Day," Stortebecker muttered, and pulled the book around to him suddenly. "It says-"
"Wait!" cried Salza again, reaching for the book.
Tracing out the words with his finger, Stortebecker was reading slowly, chewing at his lip, "And that they be hunted down and harried to their deaths,"' he repeated at the end. And he ripped out the page, dropping the book. "Sold out by the Kontor, lads!" he roared. "Aye, invited hither by this Kontor head, to frolic with the Bergen folk over the bay, and help ourselves with free hands to gear and goods of the merchants' stalls-"
Olaf spoke from the wall, "Well, here are gear and goods."
Stortebecker glared around at the rich tapestries on the walls, at the silver lanterns hanging over the desk, at the open door leading to the warehouse beyond. "Turn to, lads!" he shouted. He stuffed the parchment page into his belt. "Great liars these merchants be, for we have lifted no hand against the honest Bergen folk. Let them buy back their own goods in Lubeck."
And the sea raiders leaped for the walls.
Hidden under the aft deck of the boat, Kari heard the uproar of battle inside the Kontor. Frightened, and not knowing what to do without Olaf, she lay quiet on a robe of eider-duck feathers. First the brown falcon came down to its perch by her. Then Olaf leaped in.
Without a word he hauled up the anchor stone and shoved off with an oar. Hoisting the yard, he knotted taut the sheets. Throwing himself down beside her, he fastened a hood on the restless falcon. Then he wiped the sweat from his eyes, and shook his head. "It seems that I do not understand trading in the old country," he said.
Kari laughed a little. Now she did not feel frightened. "No," she said, "you do not, Olaf.
"
Settling down on the feather robe she felt warm and comfortable, between Olaf and the hawk. It was as if this place had been made for her. When she felt the sea breath from the fiord's mouth, she pulled the hood over her red hair, and under its cover her eyes searched the troubled face of the seafarer. "Nor do I," she admitted.
She was thinking, watching the line of the sea, when Olaf asked where he should set her ashore.
"On the isles," she said softly, "of the western sea."
The dust of the last chariot race settled slowly. One side of the Hippodrome became a tumult of waving green and exultant shouting. The favorite green had won.
Slaves ran beside the sweating, rearing horses as the slender chariots were led past the kathisma, the imperial box at the north end of the great arena. But Zoe, the Empress, did not glance at them. She was disappointed because all that afternoon there had been no spill.
She felt aggrieved by the tame ending of the last race. Listless, she lay on a couch scented with oil of poppies, beneath the heavy purple canopy that kept the harsh light of day from her face. Only her handmaidens, who labored in her attiring-rooms that were veritable laboratories of perfumes and unguents, knew the pains by which that face preserved its beauty. Her court and the world of Constantinople believed that Zoe had discovered the secret of everlasting youth; her maidens knew better.
Vain she was, and amorous. The lovers of her youth had grown gray and paunchy by now. These days it pleased Zoe to select mighty men from among the officers of the palace guard and the gladiators, to take them to the deserted throne room. There she clothed them in the Emperor's jeweled mantle and seated them beside her on the throne.
Her city of Constantinople was the queen city of the world, the ghost of the Rome that had been overrun by barbarians seven centuries before. The people liked her because she was magnificent and careless and generous. She gave away islands to her courtiers and golden shields to the barbarian Goths who pleased her. In amusing herself she entertained all Constantinople, with water festivals on the Bosporus, and especially the games in the Hippodrome. Secretly, she longed for the vaster amusements of the Caesars of Rome who had matched war galleys in mimic sea fights, and had armed women with swords and spears to struggle for their lives in the arena. That, Zoe thought, would be stimulating.
"What is that?" she demanded.
Below her, at the entrance of the royal box, a group of men had pushed past the guards. These men towered above the guards; they had long hair and wore uncouth mantles. Fair, grim men they were, who walked with long strides toward some empty seats.
Their leader was young. The skin of his throat gleamed white against the fiery red of his hair, and he laughed as he came forward.
The black boys swinging the peacock feather fans behind the Empress ceased their motion. The eunuch who sat at her feet veiled his eyes as he turned toward her, as if dazed by looking into the sun.
"Radiant Magnificence," the eunuch sucked in his breath respectfully, "they are some new barbarians. I will have them driven out-"
He was rising to hasten down to do this when Zoe cried to him impatiently: "Nay, fool, summon them here."
But the eunuch, surprisingly, hesitated. "They are war-wagers from the sea. They have not set foot in Constantinople before. Their leader is called the Unruly, and if it please Your Magnificence-"
"Then bring the chieftain alone." All that the eunuch said only made Zoe more determined to meet the red-haired giant who had pushed past her guards.
The man called the Unruly uttered an exclamation in his deep voice. Zoe wondered what he might be. She knew the yellow-maned Goths who served in the army, the fierce Alans and the Bulgars and the silent Tatars, but she had never encountered a barbarian so masterful as this flamingeyed youth who stood poised upon her platform as if it were the afterdeck of a ship at sea-he the master of the ship.
"By Sergius and Bacchus," she said, "what is he? Fetch me someone who knows his speech."
The eunuch vanished, leaving the red chieftain and the Empress contemplating one the other in silence. He returned with an English officer of the cataphracts, the mailed cavalry of Constantinople. The officer wore a gilded breastplate and a helmet with scarlet plumes, and he raised the back of his hand to his eyes as he bowed before Zoe's couch. The barbarian looked at him in surprise.
"Ask him what man he is, whence he cometh, and why he thrusts aside Iny guards to seek me," she demanded.
The English mercenary spoke to the stranger, who considered a moment. Then, raising his head, he began to chant:
"He sings," the officer lied discreetly to Zoe, "his amazement at the beauty of the Most Imperial. He hath sailed many seas and looked upon the faces of the women of a dozen cities, yet never hath he beheld so fair a face."
"Who is he?" Zoe asked, pleased.
"The younger brother of a Norse king, driven from his own land to seek his fortune upon the sea." The officer had heard of the exploits of this dour Harald, who had raised havoc along the shores of the Mediterranean.
Zoe glanced up at the Norseman. "How crude and how daring! Truly he must have a gift for his song. Maria, give the royal barbarian something from the table-that enameled cup."
From the obscurity behind the couch a quiet girl rose, picking up a goblet.
"Witless! " exclaimed Zoe. "Fill it with wine of Chios for him!"
Harald the Unruly took the goblet readily enough. "Hail!" he cried, and quaffed it down. When he handed it back to the girl, she shook her head. Perhaps because all the people were looking at her, and she dreaded the anger of the Empress, her aunt, a flush spread from her throat into her cheeks. Harald considered her in silence.
"Stupid!" whispered Zoe. "Did I say to make eyes at this great brute? Go back to thy place."
The girl turned away quickly, and the English officer explained to the stranger.
"Nay, Lord Harald, the cup is thine gift from the Empress."
Harald smiled. It was a rare and goodly cup. When he smiled, his bleak eyes softened. From his bare arm he pulled the gold ring inscribed with runes and offered it to Zoe.
"Say, thou with the feathers," he demanded, "where sits the Emperor who is overlord of all this?"
"There is no overlord. She, the Empress, rules alone."
"A woman!" Harald could not understand how a woman without a husband could keep order in a city so vast that all the men of Norway would not people it. The army of the Norse king would not fill a single side of this arena.
"It is clear," he remarked, "that the man who could win this Empress for a bride would sit in honor."
"Aye," the Englishman admitted, "if he could rule this Empress."
That, Harald thought, would be simple to do. Women could manage about a homestead well enough, and rear children, but no woman could be mightier than a man.
Zoe knew that they were talking about her. She no longer felt listless; in fact, she was conscious of a thrill of interest as she tried the great ring of the Norse chieftain on her slender arm. "Ask him," she demanded, "what he thinks of my sports?"
Both men turned to look down at the arena. Small figures were struggling, in couples, upon the raked-over sand. Some were striking with leadbound fists, others were wrestling. Down the straightaway, athletes hurled javelins high into the air while clowns dressed in the skins of beasts ran away in pretended fear.
The Englishman knew that this Harald could cast a spear sixty paces with either hand. He could go round a ship on the oars when the men were rowing.
"He says," the Englishman informed Zoe, "that all this is sport for slaves."
Zoe pouted. She rather agreed with the strange warrior, but it piqued her that the Norse chieftain should be contemptuous of her athletes.
"Let Antiochus appear-at once!" she commanded, sitting up.
Presently the crowd also stirred, and a shout went up. The fist-fighters withdrew from the arena before the imperial box, and a strange figure walked into the cleared space. A heavy, round helme
t covered his head and the nape of his neck. His right arm and shoulder were encased in scale mail, held in place by leather bands. A kilt of silvered scales covered his hips. His left arm bore a small, round shield, and his right hand held a short, straight sword.
Coming below the Empress, he sheathed his sword and extended his right arm toward her, as he called out something in a deep voice.
"He says," the Englishman whispered to Harald, "that he, who is about to die, salutes the Empress."
"What is he?" Harald asked in surprise.
"A gladiator. A swordsman."
Silence settled down upon the arena when Antiochus the gladiator faced his opponent, an Ethiopian, naked to the waist, armed with a longer sword but without a shield. The big black soon worked himself into a frenzy, leaping in and out with the swiftness of a panther
Zoe, biting hard upon her lip, leaned forward, her eyes glued to the bodies of the two men. But Harald, after the first moment, understood that the Ethiopian was doomed. In spite of his physical strength and quickness, he handled his weapon clumsily. Antiochus, although he kept his sword and shield close to his body and hardly seemed to move, was the faster fighter, and at home with steel ... Suddenly the gladiator's short sword licked out and thrust deep into the heaving chest of the black. Antiochus stepped back and looked up at the imperial box.
As Zoe extended her hand, thumb down, she felt a pleasant, irresistible thrill. In spite of the stupid priests who protested every time she did this, she could not resist the final thrill that her ancestors, the Caesars of Rome, had enjoyed without restraint.
The crowd rose to its feet, jostling to see down into the arena. Women bit at their clenched hands, their faces flushed.
The tall Ethiopian was sitting down, as if tired. Antiochus sheathed his sword and drew a slender dagger. Going to the wounded black he cut the man's throat with a deft slash and blood spurted out upon the sand.
"Ah," Zoe whispered. "Antiochus!"
Then the imperial box below her surged violently. The Norse chieftain was leaping down from bench to bench, thrusting nobles and servants aside. He vaulted the arena rail and strode toward Antiochus, who was wiping the dagger clean.