The Last Viking

by Poul Anderson

  "I hardly think so, Your Sacred Majesty."

  "Indeed?" Zoe leaned forward, drooping her lids, until he looked down the cleft of her great udders. "Spatharokandidatos," she murmured, "whatever ill you may have done, you are certainly a strong man. You could make a very fine alliance."

  It thundered in Harald's skull.

  "Oh, leap not to conclusions," said Zoe archly. "A foreigner cannot wear purple—at least in name. But in these evil times ... a strong man to uphold the throne . . . and friendly ..." She giggled.

  Harald fought to steady his rocking mind. "Despoina, I am a barbarian. I do not wish anything unsuitable."

  Zoe wagged her finger at him. "We told you not to be hasty. But still, we think you have sometimes been discourteously blind."

  So, thought Harald. She wanted to keep him here as a support, almost the only unrotted one in the Empire. And she might like to have him in bed, for a night or two; in any event, a seven-foot doll dancing attendance upon her.

  She had been penned in so long. This power over warriors and kings must feel like drunkenness.

  "Most Sacred Majesty," he said, "foolish though I may be, my heart is set on Maria Skleraina and on going home."

  She gasped so sharply that he heard it. For a space she sat and stared at him, as if unbelieving, until she broke the silence in a strangled voice. "We shall take your petition under advisement. You may go."

  Harald made obeisance and backed out.

  3

  When he returned to his house, he picked up a chair and pulled it asunder. Slowly and carefully he went through the rooms, smashing glass, crumpling gold and silver, stamping furniture into kindling. His slaves peered terrified from around the corners.

  When he was done, he bellowed for wine, emptied a cup at a draught and shattered it against the wall. Then he could sit down and think.

  If he had played the Empress' game . . . No. He was not an actor. He would have let something slip that would have cost him his eyes at the very least.

  Raise the Varangians! Pull down the roof over Zoe's wig!

  No. That was too chancy. Maria could too easily be killed. As matters stood now, he had some power. The Empress would not do anything that would goad him into revolt, or even into quitting her service. But if ever an open break came, let Maria beware her spite.

  So, he must bide his time. Perhaps, somehow, he could yet win his cause. But if not, he must escape with Maria. Therefore, he must prepare.

  He could do nothing himself; he was too carefully watched. "Boy! Hell damn you, Eleazar, come here! Go to— Wait. Do not. That would be too plain. Get back to your work! Pick up this mess!"

  Ulf could handle it. He knew every byway and itching palm in Constantinople. And tomorrow Harald would see Ulf at the Brazen House.

  He drank himself to sleep.

  The following afternoon he told the Icelander what had happened. Ulf scowled. "Things could be worse," he said, "but they could also be better. We might end in the Sigma, you and I."

  "I know," snapped Harald. "Now I want you to prepare our escape. Through some merchant or whatnot, lay aside provisions, with much monies and treasure of ours as you can slowly and secretly withdraw. Mark what ships we can steal. Sound out our most faithful men. Tell them nothing—all know what is known to three, says the Haavamaal —but make sure that if the time comes, they will instantly follow us. Keep everything so readied that we can leave at once, a month from now or a year from now or anytime it proves needful."

  "As you wish," said Ulf. "My friend Anna has agents I can use, though I shall have to give her a false reason."

  Harald chuckled. Win or lose, he was again fighting. "I thought you looked weary."

  "Whoof!" said Ulf.

  In the days that followed, Harald grew calmer. He could even stand amongst the palace guard without wanting to run berserk. A letter was smuggled to him from Maria. The words were like claws in him; she had wept while writing it. But he whispered only, "Bide your time, my dearest. Bide our chance."

  Orders came: the Empress had summoned Constantine Monomachos from Greece, and the Varangians were to march out and join the escort for his triumphal entry.

  That was a parade of bells and cheers, under raining flowers, through joyful throngs. A tall man, handsome and genial, with unexpected strength in his slender white hands, Constantine was exactly the one to spend the Empire into final ruin with proper elegance. Marching near him, Harald felt a regained hope of achieving his wishes peacefully. It was well known that Constantine's beloved mistress was a Skleraina, a third cousin or the like to Maria.

  He had had good times in this realm. Much here was fine and honorable. He would liefest not slay men who had fought at his side. So let him wait. In due time, let him plead his case to the new Emperor, as one man to another. But let him always keep alive his preparations for flight.

  Harald was stationed outside Hagia Sophia during the wedding of Constantine and Zoe. Afterward he led the guards to the palace and accepted his share of the liberal gifts handed out. At dawn he went off duty and rode home with his head dulled by weariness.

  A courier woke him from distorted dreams. The man read from a paper with the Imperial seal. The gist of the message was that the right noble Spatharokandidatos Araltes was ordered with so and so many Varangians to Italy to aid the Archestrategos Maniakes.

  Harald stood for many heartbeats, unstirring. He felt as if he were still caught in his nightmare.

  Zoe had acted—it must have been she—before he had gotten an opening. He could complete his announced resignation and go home without Maria . . . or he could try to flee with her, despite her constant presence at court during these' festivities ... or he could obey.

  Slowly, his decision grew. He would fight, and fight well. The Emperor could not refuse a man whose bravery won back whole provinces. While he was gone, Maria would plead with the Imperial concubine, who was said to have a gentle heart.

  He had waited erenow. Two years since first Maria captured him. Merciful Christ, was it that long? A dozen years since Olaf met death at Stiklastadh. He could wait longer. Holy Olaf, saint of warriors, stand by us twain.

  He lifted his head. "I shall start readying at once."

  Chapter XI:

  How Harald Was Imprisoned

  1

  The Varangians were almost ready to embark when Halldor sought out his chief.

  Harald looked up impatiently. He was whetting his weapons, a task he left for no one else. "What now?" he barked.

  The Icelander stood with a curious look on his ruined face. "Hvitserk the Red—you know him, the Swede—is in trouble. There was a brawl at an inn and he's been arrested."

  "God's eyeballs!" Harald threw an ax on the table so it bounced. "Why plague me about that? Have I not enough to do?"

  "Best you come," said Halldor. "They wait at the inn because I said you would. With your rank, you can settle the matter so as to spare Hvitserk real woe. And he was ever your trusty friend."

  Harald muttered a string of oaths, but called for his horse. The hour was late when he and Halldor clattered forth. A low sun touched spires with gold; in such a light, the crowds moved less frantically than they were wont to do. A subdued murmur hung over the city, mingling the sounds of voices and feet and wheels into a soft blanket much like the one smoke that curled about the roofs made. Neither Northman said anything on their way.

  The inn was a tumbledown hog pen near the waterfront. Harald dismounted and stormed inside. Hvitserk the Swede stood there watched by two praefectural guards and a score of unkempt sailors.

  "What have you done now?" snarled Harald.

  Hvitserk shrugged. Unexpectedly, he spoke in Greek, and though his tone was sullen, there was something else behind the freckled mask of his face. "The pig overcharged me. We had words, and he said what would have been cause for killing at home, and I struck him. He squealed for these guardsmen who were nearby. ..."

  "Well," sighed Harald, "let me talk to him. Belike w
e can end the matter without going to the law."

  "He lies above," said Halldor. "That was a hefty blow." He led Harald up a rickety, smoke-blackened stair and opened a door. As they went through, he closed it quickly behind him.

  The landlord sat nursing a bruised mouth. Halldor grinned and counted out ten byzants. "Here's your money," he said. "Now you and I will go into the next room, Apollonius, and I'll explain what will happen to you if ever you breathe a word of this."

  Harald had not seen the exchange. He stood stock still, eyes fixed on the other person in that room.

  Maria rose from a couch and ran to him. She had grown pale, and weeping had marked her eyes, but all earth's mornings lay in her smile. They came into each other's arms and for a long space naught was said. Behind them the window framed spires and domes, black against a sky of burnt gold.

  "Maria," Harald whispered wonderingly. "Maria."

  She drew his lips back to hers.

  "How was it done?" he asked after another while. "This is too dangerous for you. ..."

  "Not so. It is safe. Ulf and Halldor contrived it." She moved back from him, their hands still clasped together. Her rumpled hair fell darkly to her shoulders.

  Soon, from her lips, he had the full story. Secret messengers had taken the needful words between her and the Icelanders. Then as her curtained litter, returning from court, neared home, another which bore Ulf had come alongside. She had slipped in with him, while her own bribed bearers continued on their way. Meanwhile, with Hvitserk's help, a likely excuse had been made for Harald to come here. She could go back after dark, when any spies would think her litter brought only some guest to Nicephorus' house.

  "They thought . . . they knew it would be . . . hard for me to live without seeing you before you go," said Maria.

  "I need not go. We can flee the city tonight."

  "What?" Fear leaped forth in her. "To defy the crown . . ."

  "Satan take the crown," he said, near retching with bitterness. "I've served them well. Why have they done this to us?"

  "Surely you know that," she said. "There are three reasons. First, they would keep a great captain like you, in this time of troubles. Second, they grow ever more fearful of a Russian attack, and would not risk you going to Jaroslav with your knowledge of their defenses. Third ..."

  "What else?" he urged when her tones died.

  A cart rumbled heavily beneath the window.

  "I think Zoe loves you," Maria said.

  "That old swine?" he snorted.

  "Who would not love you, Harald? I have never understood why I was chosen to be so blessed out of a thousand women."

  "Let's have no more foolishness." He felt his ears redden.

  "But you'll not know what you must overcome unless you see….She knows she cannot have you; she is bound that I shall not. Otherwise she would only need to make your remaining here a while longer a condition of our wedding. At the same time, she is angry with you for defending her Paphlagonian oppressors, and—"

  "Has she been mistreating you?" he flared.

  Maria shook her head in haste. "I rarely see her. My duties lie elsewhere. It's only that I cannot be with you."

  "That's enough!"

  She kissed him, and for another time no words were spoken.

  "Come away with me," he said. "Come away this night."

  "I cannot leave my kinfolk to Zoe's revenge." Maria drew back from him, her slender form dark against the dying western sky. When she spoke again, it was in a clear, almost dry tone: "Our one hope is for you to win the new Emperor's favor. That should not be hard. To think of you at war is like a knife, but surely Christ will guard you. Meantime I can plead with my cousin, the Skleraina."

  "I may be long gone," he said.

  "I can wait . . . knowing you will return."

  "So be it, then." He hammered a fist softly into his palm.

  "Harald," she said unsteadily. "My beloved . . . if before you go, you would wish ... we two, now. . . ."

  He clutched her so she gasped. Then, exerting all his control, he let her slip free and kissed her with a great tenderness.

  "Not here, in one frightened hour," he said. "You are worthy of more."

  "When you come home," she whispered.

  The rest of their time together they talked little.

  2

  The Varangians landed at Otranto. Together with Bari, Brindisi, and Tarento, this was all that remained of the Empire's Italian possessions. But Georgios Maniakes had gone to work at once; the rebels and their Norman allies were being driven back. Something cold had entered the soul of the Archestrategos while he lay in prison: he had let his men plunder Monopoli and Matera without restraint and had struck the heads off two hundred leading men at the latter city.

  While preparing to join him, Harald heard news afresh from Constantinople. Without so much as hearing his case, Theodora had had John the Paphlagonian seized and blinded on his estate. Harald laughed, until it came to him that this was the vengeance of Zoe's sister.

  Well . . . there was a war to fight. He flung himself into the task.

  After a few days' travel he found Georgios encamped. The Byzantine gave him curt greeting. "So we meet again, Spatharokandidatos. You come at an ill moment."

  "I thought our cause was going well," said Harald.

  "Not with Constantine Monomachos on the throne," spat Georgios.

  Harald had been long enough in the South to feel a shudder at hearing the Emperor thus bespoken. "He seems a decent sort," he replied.

  "Did you not know his whore the Skleraina is sister to my enemy? Romanus Skleros has claimed my great holdings in Asia are his own. Where now shall I get justice?" Georgios' mouth bent downward like a peevish child's.

  After a moment he went on, distantly. "I think best our two commands be separated. There are Norman strongholds in plenty for us both. My liaison officers will tell you what to do."

  "Kyrios Maniakes," said Harald, astonished, "I believed we were friends."

  "The story is you, too, are buzzing around a Skleraina. You may go."

  Harald snapped his teeth together. He would have stalked out less wrathfully had he known he would never see Georgios again.

  On a rainy night, alone in a commandeered cottage, he tried to write a letter to go back with the dispatches. His lamp sputtered and smoked in the dank air. Slowly, his fingertips straining on the quill, he traced out the Greek signs:

  "Harald Sigurdharson, King of Norway and Spatharokandidatos, to Maria Skleraina in Constantinople, greeting.

  "I hope this finds you well. Our war goes forward. There is no stiffness in the Italians, but the Normans give trouble. We have had much rain of late. Soon we shall march to the next enemy town."

  (Olaf cast it to Hell! This was not what he wanted to say. He was a skald; in the Norse tongue he could have made a verse, the ring of arms and the neigh of horses, sharp axes and shining helmets . . . only that was not the truth. The truth was tramping through mud that lay on the boots heavy as sorrow, it was searching for fleas and gulping moldy bread, it was Hvitserk with a lance in his breast, staring and plucking at it, seeking a brave word to die with but only slobbering blood. It was a loneliness that naught but sleep could hide, and men sinking into sleep like beasts, now and again they fell asleep on their feet and lay in the road with the brown rainwater gurgling around them.)

  "Word is that we may have finished before Christmas. My horse went lame and I cannot get another big enough. The peasants are surly, they like not the Empire. But we are having good success."

  (Starved faces in the doorways of hovels, watching with animal eyes their masters stumbling by. A rotted corpse in a ditch. A raped girl, perhaps twelve years old, swollen and sick with child. The ashes of a homestead, and charred bones among them.)

  "We have won little booty. But I have hopes of getting somewhat from the Normans. You will need gold when you are queen of Norway."

  Ah, better! Harald heard a knock on the door. He worked his fin
gers to get the stiffness out of them and reached carefully for his ax.

  "Enter," he said.

  Ulf came in. Rain puddled around his feet and soaked his hair and bristled beard. He grinned wildly. "We've just got tidings," he said. "A special courier. Another rebellion is afoot."

  "How's that?" Harald stood up. The lamp threw his misshapen shadow across the walls.

  "It seems the latest ship from home bore private news to our good Archestrategos. His old acquaintance Romanus Skleros has seized the land they quarreled about and seduced Gyrgi's wife to boot. I hear Gyrgi is like one crazed. He's going to proclaim himself Emperor and revolt."

  Harald stood still. Rain hissed on the thatch overhead.

  "Well," said Ulf, "whose side are we on?"

  "I know not." Harald stared before him. "If he should win, his friends may look for reward."

  "But he may lose."

  "Yes. Also, Maria is in Miklagardh now." Harald shook himself. "We'll stand by the throne."

  "Were things otherwise," said Ulf, "I'd liefer march with Gyrgi."

  "So would I," said Harald.

  He held himself aloof, wrote back and asked for orders. Georgios did not approach him, but worked hard to make allies of the Normans.

  Winter came, and at last Constantine's army. Harald, some distance off, could not join that host before Georgios routed it. Thereafter the rebel and his men took ship across the Adriatic Sea to Dyrrachium.

  Whether for lack of trust or good reasons of war, Harald was commanded to remain in Italy to keep it from being rallied against the Emperor. This was not overly difficult, and he chafed many weeks in idleness. No longer able to rein in his flesh, he took an Italian concubine and felt himself the worst of men.