Viking 2: Sworn Brother

by Tim Severin

  My monastery-learned Greek, I rapidly discovered, either made people smile or wince. The latter was the reaction of the palace functionary who accepted ibn Hauk’s letter on behalf of the court protocol department. He made me wait for an hour in a bleak antechamber before I was ushered into his presence. As ibn Hauk had anticipated, I was greeted with supreme bureaucratic indifference.

  ‘This will be placed before the memoriales in due course,’ the functionary said, using only his fingertips to touch ibn Hauk’s exquisitely written letter, as if it was tainted.

  ‘Will the memoriales want to send a reply?’ I asked politely.

  The civil servant curled his lip. ‘The memoriales,’ he said, ‘are the secretaries of the imperial records department. They will study the document and decide if the letter should be placed on file or if it merits onward transmission to the charturalius –’ he saw my puzzlement – ‘the chief clerk. He in turn will decide whether it should be forwarded to the office of the dromos, the foreign minister, or to the basilikoi, who heads the office of special emissaries. In either case it will require the secretariat’s approval and, of course, the consent of the minister himself, before the matter of a response is brought forward for consideration. ’ His reply convinced me that my duty towards ibn Hauk had been amply discharged. His letter would be mired in the imperial bureaucracy for months.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me where I might find the Varangians,’ I ventured.

  The secretary raised a disdainful eyebrow at my antiquated Greek.

  ‘The Varangians,’ I repeated. ‘The imperial guardsmen.’

  There was a pause as he deliberated over my question, it was as if he was smelling a bad odour. ‘Oh, you mean the emperor’s wineskins,’ he answered. ‘That drunken lot of barbarians. I haven’t the least idea. You’d better ask someone else.’ It was quite plain that he knew the answer to my question, but was not prepared to help.

  I had better luck with a passer-by in the street. ‘Follow this main avenue,’ he said, ‘past the porticos and arcades of shops until you come to the Milion – that’s a pillar with a heavy iron chain round the base. There’s a dome over it, held up on four columns, rather like an upside-down soup bowl. You can’t miss it. It’s where all the official measurements for distances in the empire start from. Go past the Milion and take the first right. In front of you you’ll see a large building, looks like a prison, which is not surprising because that is what it used to be. That’s now the barracks for the imperial guard. Ask for the Numera if you get lost.’

  I followed his directions. It seemed natural to seek out the Varangians. I knew no one in this immense city. In my purse I had a few silver coins left over from ibn Hauk’s generosity, but they would soon be spent. The only northerners whom I knew for certain lived in Miklagard were the soldiers of the emperor’s bodyguard. They came from Denmark, Norway, Sweden and some from England. Many, like Ivarr’s father, had once served in Kiev before deciding to come on to Constantinople and apply to join the imperial bodyguard. It occurred to me that I might even ask if I could join. After all, I had served with the Jomsvikings.

  My scheme, had I known it, was as clumsy and whimsical as my knowledge of spoken Greek, but even in the city of churches Odinn still watched over me.

  As I reached the Numera, a man emerged from the doorway to the barracks and started to walk across the large square away from me. He was obviously a guardsman. His height and breadth of shoulder made that much clear. He was a head taller than the majority of the citizens around him. They were small and neat, dark haired and olive skinned, and dressed in the typical Greek costume, loose shirt and trousers for the men, long flowing gowns and veils for the women. By contrast, the guardsman was wearing a tunic of red, and I could see the hilt of a heavy sword hanging from his right shoulder. I noticed too that his long blond hair hung in three plaits down his neck. I was staring at the back of his head as he moved through the crowd, when I recognised something about him. It was the way he walked. He moved like a ship rolling and cresting over the swell of the sea. The faster-moving civilians had to step aside to get past him. They were like a river flowing around a rock. Then I remembered where I had seen that gait before. There was only one man that tall, who walked in that measured way – Grettir’s half-brother, Thorstein Galleon.

  I broke into a run and chased after him. The coincidence seemed so far-fetched that I did not yet dare say a prayer of thanks to Odinn in case I was deluded. I was still wearing an Arab gown that ibn Hauk had given me and to the pedestrians I must have looked a strange sight indeed, a fair-haired barbarian in a flapping cotton robe pushing rudely through the crowd in pursuit of one of the imperial guard.

  ‘Thorstein!’ I shouted.

  He stopped, and turned. I saw his face and knew I would make a sacrifice to Odinn in gratitude.

  ‘Thorstein!’ I repeated, coming closer. ‘It’s me Thorgils, Thorgils Leifsson. I haven’t seen you since Grettir and I were at your farmhouse in Tonsberg, on our way to Iceland.’

  For a moment Thorstein looked puzzled. My Arab dress must have confused him, and my face was tanned by the sun. ‘By Thor and his goats,’ he rumbled, ‘it is indeed Thorgils. What on earth are you doing here and how did you find your way to Miklagard?’ He clapped me on the shoulder and I flinched. His hand had touched the wound left by Froygeir’s knife.

  ‘I only arrived today,’ I answered. ‘It’s a long story but I came here through Gardariki and along the rivers with the fur traders.’

  ‘But how is it that you are alone and inside the city itself?’ Thorstein asked. ‘River traders are not allowed inside the city walls unless they are accompanied by an official.’

  ‘I came as an ambassadorial courier,’ I said. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘You too,’ answered Thorstein heartily. ‘I heard that you became Grettir’s sworn brother after you got back to Iceland. Which makes a bond between us.’ Abruptly he checked himself, as though his initial enthusiasm was misplaced. ‘I was on my way to report for duty at the palace guardroom, but there’s time for us to go and share a glass of wine in a tavern,’ and, strangely, he took me by the arm, and almost pushed me away from the open square and into the shelter of one of the arcades. We turned into the first tavern we came to and he led me to the back of the room. Here he sat us down where we could not be observed from the street.

  ‘I’m sorry to seem so brusque, Thorgils,’ he said, ‘but no one else knows that Grettir was my half-brother and I want it to stay that way.’

  For a moment I was scandalised. I had never imagined that Thorstein would conceal his relationship to Grettir, even though his half-brother had earned such an unsavoury reputation as a brigand and outlaw. But I was misjudging Thorstein badly.

  ‘Thorgils, you remember the promise I made to Grettir at my farm in Norway. On the day that you and he were about to set sail for Iceland?’

  ‘You promised to avenge him if ever he was killed unjustly.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here in Constantinople, because of Grettir,’ Thorstein went on. His voice had a new intensity. ‘I’ve come here in pursuit of the man who killed him. It’s taken a long time to track him down and now I’m very close. In fact I don’t want him to know just how close. It’s not that I think he will make a run for it, he’s come too far for that. What I want is to pick the right moment. When I’m to take my revenge, it won’t be a hole-in-the-corner deed. It will be out in the open, something to make men remember.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Grettir would have said,’ I replied. ‘But tell me, how does Thorbjorn Ongul come to be here in Miklagard?’

  ‘So you know it was that one-eyed bastard who caused the deaths of Grettir and Illugi,’ said Thorstein. ‘That’s common knowledge in Iceland but nowhere else. He was condemned to exile by the Althing for employing the help of a black witch to cause Grettir’s death. Since then he’s taken care to keep out of sight. He went to Norway, then came here to Miklagard, where there’s little chance
of running into any other Icelanders or being recognised. In fact the other members of the guard know nothing about his background. He applied to the service about a year ago, met the entry requirements, greased a few palms and has established himself as a reliable soldier. That’s another reason why I have to strike at the right moment. The regiment won’t like it.’

  He paused for a moment and then said quietly, ‘Thorgils, your arrival has complicated matters for me. I cannot allow anything which might interfere with my promise or risk its outcome. I would prefer if you stayed out of Constantinople, at least until I have settled matters with Thorbjorn Ongul.’

  ‘There’s another way, Thorstein,’ I said. ‘Both of us are honour bound to Grettir’s memory, whether as half-brother or sworn brother. As witness to your oath to Grettir I have a duty to support you, should you ever need my help. I am utterly certain that it was Odinn who brought about this meeting between us and that he did it for a purpose. Until that purpose becomes clear, I ask you to reconsider. Try to think how I might remain in Constantinople and be close at hand. For instance, why don’t I join the guard as a recruit? Anonymously of course.’

  Thorstein shook his head. ‘Out of the question. Right now there are many more volunteers than vacancies and a long waiting list. I paid a hefty bribe to get in. Four pounds of gold is the going rate for the greedy officials who maintain the army list. Of course the pay scales are so good that you earn the money back in three or four years. The emperor knows enough to keep his guardsmen happy. They’re the only troops he can trust in this city of intrigues and plots.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘Maybe there is a way of arranging for you to be close at hand, but you will have to be very discreet. Each guardsman has the right to have one valet on regimental strength. It’s a menial job, but it provides you with a billet in the main barracks. I have not yet exercised my nomination.’

  ‘Won’t there be a risk that Ongul will see and recognise me?’ I asked.

  ‘Not if you keep in the background,’ Thorstein answered. ‘The Varangian guard has grown in size. There are nearly five hundred of us nowadays and we no longer all fit into the Numera Barracks. Two or three platoons are quartered in the former barracks of the excubitors – they are the palace regiment of Greek guardsmen. Their regimental strength is in decline, while ours is growing. That’s where Thorbjorn Ongul has his room – another reason why it’s been difficult for me to find the right moment to challenge him over Grettir’s death.’

  So it was that I became Thorstein Galleon’s valet, not a very demanding task as it turned out. At least not for someone who, as a youngster, had been on the palace staff of that great dandy, King Sigtryggr of Dublin. I had learned a long time ago how to comb and plait hair, wash and press clothes, and polish armour and weapons till they gleamed. And it turned out to be the Varangians’ pride in their weapons which provided Thorstein with the opportunity to take revenge, far earlier than he or I had expected.

  The Byzantines love pomp. More than any other nation I have seen, they adore pageantry and outward show. I can scarcely recall a single day when they did not have some sort of parade or ceremony in which the basileus took a prominent part. It might be a procession from the palace to attend a service in one of the many churches, a formal parade to commemorate a victory of the army, or a trip to the harbour to inspect the fleet and the arsenal. Even a local excursion to the horse races at the Hippodrome – less than a bow shot from the palace outer wall – was organised by the master of ceremonies and his multitude of officious staff. They kept an immensely long list of precedence, detailing who held what rank in the palace hierarchy, what their precise title was, who was senior to whom, how they must be addressed, and so forth. When an imperial procession formed up to leave the palace grounds, these busybodies could be seen rushing around, making sure that everyone was in their correct place in the column and carried the proper emblem of rank – a jewelled whip, a gold chain, inscribed ivory tablets, a rolled-up diploma, a sword with a golden hilt, a jewelled gold collar, and so forth. For onlookers it was easy to identify the imperial family: only they were allowed to wear the colour purple, and immediately in front and behind of them marched the guards, just in case of trouble.

  The Varangians carried the symbols of their trade: battleaxe and sword. The axe had a single blade, often inlaid with expensive silver scrollwork. The haft was waxed as far as the two-handed grip with its fancy, hand-stitched leatherwork. Both blade and shaft were polished until they gleamed. The heavy sword was worn, as I have mentioned, dangling from the right shoulder, but there was a problem when it came to its embellishment because a sword with a gold hilt was the emblem of a spartharios, a court official of middle rank whose rights and privileges were jealously preserved. So the guardsmen found other ways to ornament their weapons. In my time in Constantinople silver sword handles were popular, and some soldiers had their swords fitted with grips made of exotic wood. Nearly all the men had paid the scabbard makers to have their sword sheaths covered in scarlet silk to match their tunics.

  Less than a week after I had taken up my duties as Thorstein’s valet, a message arrived at the Numera barracks from the logothete, a high official of the chancery. The basileus and his entourage were to process to a service of thanksgiving in the church of Hagia Sophia, and the guard was to provide the usual imperial escort. However, the logothete – he was far too grand to speak for himself but sent a deputy – stressed that the occasion was sufficiently important for the entire guard to be on parade in full regalia. The procession was scheduled to take place in three days’ time.

  Typically, the first response of the senior officers was to order a dress rehearsal, which took place in the great square before the Numera barracks. I watched from an upper window and had to admit that I was impressed. The Varangian guard looked awe-inspiring, rank upon rank of burly, heavily bearded axemen, fierce enough in appearance to terrify any opposition. Even Thorstein, with his great height, was overtopped by several colleagues, and I spotted Thorbjorn Ongul with his villainous one-eyed look.

  The moment the dress rehearsal ended, I and the other orderlies hurried out into the square to collect up the tunics, sword belts and other accoutrements which we would have to keep clean and neat until the procession itself. Naturally a number of the soldiers gathered in groups to gossip and at that point I saw Thorstein walk across and join the group which included Thorbjorn Ongul.

  Rashly, I followed.

  Taking up my position on the edge of the circle, I took care to keep out of Thorbjorn Ongul’s sight, but moved close enough to see what was going on. As I had noted with the Jomsvikings, soldiers love nothing better than to compare their weaponry and this is precisely what the guardsmen were doing. They were showing off their swords, axes and daggers to one another and making claims, mostly exaggerated, about the merits of each item – its excellent balance, its sharpness, how it kept an edge when hacking at a wooden shield, the number of enemies the weapon had despatched, and so on. When it came to Ongul’s turn, he unhitched his scabbard, withdrew his sword and flourished it proudly.

  My mouth went dry. The sword which Ongul held up for all to see was the very same sword which Grettir had looted from the barrow mound in my company. I recognised it at once. It was a unique weapon, beautifully made with that wavy pattern in the metal of the blade that denotes the finest workmanship of the Frankish swordsmiths. It was the sword Ongul had wrenched from Grettir’s hand, chopping off his fingers to release his grip as my sworn brother lay dying on the squalid floor of his hideout on Drang. I made a mental note to tell Thorstein how the sword came to be in Ongul’s possession, but Grettir’s killer did it for me. The guardsman standing next to Ongul asked if he might look more closely at the weapon and Ongul proudly handed over the sword. The guardsman sighted along the blade and pointed out to Ongul that there were two nicks on the cutting edge.

  ‘You should get those attended to. It’s a shame that such a fine blade has such marks,’ he said.


  ‘Oh no,’ announced Ongul boastfully as he took back the sword. ‘I made those nicks myself. They come from the day that I used this sword to put an end to the perverted outlaw, Grettir the Strong. This was his sword. I took it from him and those two nicks were made when I hacked off his head. Grettir the Strong was like no other man. Even his neck bones were like iron. It took four good blows to cut through his neck and that was when the sword edge was chipped. I wouldn’t grind out those marks even if the commander-in-chief himself asked me to.’

  ‘Can I see the weapon?’ asked a voice. I recognised the deep tones of Thorstein Galleon, and saw Ongul hand over the weapon. Thorstein swung the sword from side to side experimentally to find what a true swordsman calls the sweet spot, the balance point where the edge carries the most impact and a blade should meet its target. The sweep of Thorstein’s swing made the crowd move back to give him more space and, to my horror, the man standing in front of me stepped aside and left me exposed to Ongul’s view. He glanced round the circle and the gaze of his single eye settled on my face. I knew that he recognised me immediately as the man who had been carried off Drang after Grettir’s death. I saw him frown as he tried to understand why I was there. But it was too late.

  ‘This is to avenge Grettir Asmundarson, the man you foully murdered,’ Thorstein called out as he stepped across the watching circle of men, raised the nicked sword and from his great height brought it slicing down directly on Ongul’s unprotected skull. Thorstein had found the sweet spot. The sword bit through Ongul’s skull and split his head like a melon. The man who had killed my closest friend died instantly.

  For a moment there was stunned silence. The onlookers gazed down at Ongul’s corpse, sprawled on the flagstones of the parade ground. Thorstein made no move to escape. He stood with bloody sword in his grasp, an expression of profound satisfaction on his face. Then he calmly wiped the blood from the sword, walked across to where I stood and handed it to me with the words, ‘In Grettir’s memory.’