Viking 3: King’s Man

by Tim Severin

  Maniakes took this remark as an affront and an encroachment on his absolute authority. ‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘That horse will be placed in my stables. I keep the animal for myself.’

  Hervé blundered on, compounding his error. ‘Surely that is unjust,’ he said. ‘Iron Arm defeated his opponent in fair combat, and by custom he should receive the weapons and horse of the vanquished.’

  Maniakes glared at him, his scowl of anger deepening. The two men were facing one another in the main city square. With Maniakes were a few Greek staff officers, while Hervé was accompanied by half a dozen of his mercenaries. This was a very public squabble.

  ‘The horse is mine,’ Maniakes repeated. He was now so angry that his voice had deepened to an ugly growl.

  Hervé opened his mouth as if to speak, and at that moment Maniakes stepped forward and struck the mercenary full in the face. Maniakes, as I have said, was a huge man, a giant. The force of the blow knocked Hervé off his feet, though he was tall and strong enough to be capable of standing up to a normal assault. As the mercenary started to get up from the ground, his mouth bloody from a cut lip, the Greek general unleashed a kick that sent Hervé sprawling once again. Maniakes was breathing heavily, his eyes filled with rage as he watched the humiliated mercenary slowly stand upright with the help of two of his men, who hurried forward to support him. Maniakes’s staff officers stayed rooted to the spot, terrified by the fury of their leader. I remembered the warning of the Greek officer back in Constantinople that the new commander-in-chief demanded instant obedience, ‘particularly from northern barbarians’.

  No one said anything, and the stallion and his groom stood there until into this fraught moment entered one of Hervé’s mercenaries, Iron Arm himself. He detached himself from the group of onlookers and strolled across to the horse. As he walked, Iron Arm was pulling on to his right hand his heavy metal-plated gauntlet. Coming up to the stallion, the mercenary began to pet the animal, stroking the magnificent head and neck, patting his flanks and fondling his ears. The stallion responded with pleasure, turning his fine head to nuzzle the man. Then Iron Arm moved to stand directly in front of the animal, put his left hand behind his back, and clicked his fingers. The stallion’s head came up, the ears pricked in curiosity, the eyes bright and questioning, wondering at the sound. In that instant Iron Arm raised his gauntleted right hand and delivered a terrific blow with his clenched right fist, right between the stallion’s eyes. The stallion collapsed, his legs folding up, killed outright. Iron Arm calmly turned and walked back to join his comrades.

  Next day Hervé and his entire band of mercenaries left Syracuse and returned to Italy, refusing to serve under Maniakes again.

  ‘WHAT A PUNCH that man has got!’ commented Halldor. ‘The Greek general is going to regret getting on the wrong side of the Frankish mercenaries.’

  We were taking our galleys out of harbour to begin our patrol, and the death of the stallion was the sole topic of conversation.

  ‘Maniakes has been in an evil temper ever since Abdallah escaped him. I doubt that the emir will be caught now. Abdallah has had plenty of time to make his escape back to Libya. Still, if we are cruising the coast, maybe we can make a few shore raids on our own account and pick up a little booty on the side.’

  Halldor’s Viking instincts were to be rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. Of the five galleys in our flotilla, Harald despatched two northwards to cruise towards Palermo in case the emir was still there. Two more galleys were sent to patrol the coast, facing across to Libya and the emir’s most likely escape route. The fifth galley, Harald’s own, had a more free-ranging task. We would search along the south-eastern coast, examining the bays and harbours for any trace of Saracen shipping capable of carrying the emir off the island. Now that Abdallah was on the run, we knew we could rely on receiving intelligence from the Greek-speaking population who lived along the coast.

  For nearly a week, we made our way slowly along the rockbound coast, looking into creeks and harbours, interrogating fishermen and finding nothing suspicious. It seemed that Sicily was quiet again now the emir was defeated, and the populace had returned to their normal peacetime lives. We were about halfway along the coast when we came to a long beach of white sand backed with low dunes covered with tussock grass. This itself was unusual, for most of the shore that we had seen was cliff and reef. I asked the Greek fisherman who was our pilot along this stretch of coast if this beach was ever used as a landing place, and he shook his head. Apparently the nearest village was far inland, and the fishermen had no reason to come there because the fishing in the area was bad. I translated his reply to Harald, and immediately the Norwegian’s predatory instinct was aroused. He scanned the beach for several moments. We could see nothing. The beach looked quiet.

  ‘Turn for shore,’ Harald ordered the helmsman. ‘This needs a closer look.’

  Gently we ran the galley’s bows on land, and a dozen of us jumped ashore. I could hear only the slight lap of the waves on the beach. Squinting against the glare of the white sand, for the sun was blazing down, we began to walk up along the beach.

  ‘You four,’ Harald ordered a group of men next to him, ‘Search in that direction as far as those low bushes in the distance. The others come with me.’

  He began to walk towards the dunes. I followed him, my feet sinking in the soft sand as I tried to keep up with his massive stride. We had gone perhaps fifty paces when, suddenly, four Saracens sprang up in front of us. They had been crouched down, hiding behind a dune, and now they sprinted away inland, feet flying so I could see the soles of their bare feet. They reminded me of hares who wait until the last moment before the hunter treads on them, then start away in panic. And they were as quick, for there was no hope of catching them. We stopped and watched them growing smaller in the distance. When they were out of range of even the most ambitious archer, one of the fugitives stopped and turned, then waited there, watching us.

  Harald narrowed his eyes as he looked at the distant figure. ‘What does that remind you of, Thorgils?’ he asked.

  ‘My lord? I was just thinking to myself that they ran as fast as hares.’

  ‘Not hares,’ he said. ‘Think of nesting birds. What do they do?’

  Immediately I understood. ‘Leave the nest, run off as a distraction, hoping to divert the hunter.’

  ‘So now we look for the nest.’

  But for the boy’s eyes we would never have found him. He had been buried in the sand beneath the overhang of a bush. The only part of him left on the surface was his face, and even that had been covered in a light cotton rag whose colour matched the sand around him. But in breathing the boy had caused the rag to slip slightly to one side. I was walking past the bush when I saw the glint of an eyeball. I beckoned quietly to Harald, who was searching the bushes a few paces from me, and he came over to look where I pointed. The boy knew he had been found. Harald reached down, brushed away the sand and seized him by the shoulder, pulling him from his hiding place. The boy was no more than six or seven years old, slim, with a skin that was fair for a Saracen, and fine features. He was trembling with fright.

  ‘By all the saints!’ exclaimed the Greek fisherman. He had come across to see what we had found. ‘That’s Abdallah’s son!’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ I asked.

  ‘He rode on his father’s horse the day that the emir came to visit our village. Abdallah held him up to show him off to our people and present to us our future ruler. There’s no mistaking the lad. Besides, look at those clothes he’s wearing. That’s no peasant brat.’

  I translated the fisherman’s words to Harald, and, as if he was picking up a doll, the Norwegian suddenly swung the boy up in the air and held him high over his head. Then he turned to face the distant watcher, and stood there, showing off our find. After a few moments, the Saracen began to walk towards us.

  ‘I am his tutor,’ he explained, speaking good Greek with the high, quick intonation of the Saracens. He was an older m
an, thin, grey-bearded and clearly anguished. ‘Do not harm him, I beg you.’

  ‘Where is Abdallah, the emir?’ demanded Harald.

  ‘I do not know,’ the man answered miserably. ‘I was only told to bring the boy to this beach and wait for us to be picked up. But when a ship would come I had no idea. At first we thought it was your vessel. And when we realised our mistake it was too late to get away, so we tried to conceal the boy, hoping you would go away.’

  ‘Thorgils, a word with you in private,’ said Harald. ‘Halldor, here, you take a hold of the lad.’ Then he led me a few paces to one side and said bluntly, ‘What’s the boy worth?’

  I was searching for an answer when Harald went on fiercely, ‘Come on, think! Abdallah cannot be too far away to receive our message. What’s the boy worth?’

  I was so taken aback by the fierceness of his questioning that I began to stammer. ‘M-m-my lord, I have no idea.’

  Harald cut across me. ‘What was it you said when we saw that golden dome in the Holy Land? That the Saracens pay huge sums for those things which are most dear to them?’

  ‘But that was a holy shrine,’

  ‘And is not a son and heir equally precious, to a father? We don’t have any time to waste, Thorgils. How much was it that the caliph or whatever he was called set aside for the gilding of the dome?’

  ‘The sum was a hundred thousand dinars, our guide said.’

  ‘Right. Tell the boy’s tutor that if the emir pays a hundred thousand dinars, he’ll see his son again, unharmed. Otherwise we hand the boy over to Maniakes. That’s my message.’

  ‘But how can the emir raise that amount of money now?’ I said. ‘He’s a fugitive.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of a ruler who doesn’t take his treasure with him when he flees, provided he has the transport. And you can add a second message as a sweetener. If the hundred thousand is paid, not only will the emir get his son back, but I will make sure that my flotilla does not hinder his escape to Libya.’

  I suppose I should have been shocked by Harald’s double-dealing, but I was not. Perhaps the years I had spent in Constantinople had hardened me to intrigue and treachery. Certainly every Norseman in Harald’s war band would have expected him to exact a price for the boy, and not one of them would want to share the ransom with the autokrator if Harald could somehow arrange it. But, even as Harald spoke, his blatant perfidy made me acknowledge to myself that my ultimate loyalty had never been to the palace in Constantinople or its appointees, but to my own people. Faced with the stark choice of serving either the Basileus or Harald, I did not hesitate.

  ‘I will see what I can arrange, my lord,’ I answered, even as I remembered just how hard-headed Pelagia could be in matters of business profit. She would certainly have advised me to extract the greatest advantage from our lucky catch.

  ‘Good, Thorgils, do that. And be quick. If this is to succeed it must be done quickly. Three days at the most.’

  The boy’s tutor winced slightly when I mentioned the enormous sum, but, like a good negotiator, he avoided direct haggling. ‘And how is such a large quantity of money to be delivered and the boy’s well-being guaranteed?’ he enquired, his eyes flicking nervously to Halldor, who still had the youngster in his grip.

  ‘As regards the boy’s safety, you will have to trust us on that,’ I said. ‘It’s in our interest to keep him safe and well. He’s not our enemy, nor is his father if he accepts this proposal. We’ll keep the boy aboard ship until the ransom is paid.’

  ‘And the payment itself? How is that transaction to be made? When so much gold is on view, men tend to lose their heads and seek more. They break their word.’

  For a moment I was silent. I had never organised the paying of a ransom, and did not know how it was done so that the interests of both sides were protected. Then, perhaps with Odinn’s help, I recalled my time among the ski-runners of Permia. They were a fur-trading people who mistrusted all outsiders, so they conducted any barter at arm’s length. They left their furs for inspection in a deserted open place, and their customers left a similar value in payment at the same spot. Perhaps I could modify that arrangement for Harald’s purposes.

  ‘The ransom is to be brought to this end of the beach at noon on the third day from now,’ I said. ‘Our vessel will be in the bay close enough to watch your men place the ransom on the sand and withdraw a safe distance to a point on the dunes where they can still be seen. The only people on the beach will be the boy and myself, waiting for you at the opposite end of the beach. You will be able to see for yourselves that he is alive and well. But you are not to come any nearer. If you do so, the galley will immediately come and retrieve the boy. I will walk along the beach to inspect the ransom, and if everything is satisfactory, I will signal the galley to come and pick up the money. At that moment your people can advance and collect the boy. Neither side will be close enough to the trade to be able to take both the boy and the ransom.’

  The old man looked at me and said softly, ‘You I trust. But not that tall pirate who is your leader. It will be up to you to make him respect these rules. Otherwise there will be a tragedy.’

  When the Saracens had left to take our message to the emir, I explained the ransom arrangement to Harald. I had never seen him so deep in thought. He chewed on his moustache as he reflected on my device, and scowled at me.

  ‘Thorgils,’ he said, ‘you’ve lived too long among these people. You are beginning to scheme like them. Of course, if anything goes wrong, it will be you left sitting on the beach, not us.’

  ‘I think the handover will work,’ I reassured him with a confidence that I did not feel, ‘though whether the emir will find so much money is another matter.’

  As it turned out, the handover of the ransom went exactly as I had hoped, except for one flaw which, if I had foreseen it, might have prevented me from setting up the plan.

  Shortly before noon on the third day, as our galley lay out in the bay, a file of fifteen mules approached over the sand dunes. I was seated on the far end of the beach with the young Saracen boy, who had not said a word all the time he had been with us. He was still in a state of shock. When he saw the approaching mules, his face lit up with hope, for he must have known what was going on. If I had been sensible, I should have tied his arms and legs so he could not run away when I went to examine the panniers that the muleteers dumped on the beach before they withdrew, but I did not have the heart to do so. Instead, after he had stood up and waved to his tutor, who was watching from a distance, I gestured for the boy to sit down and wait quietly, which he did. Then I walked along the sand to the pile of mule bags, unfastened the thongs that tied one or two of them, and lifted up the flaps. I had never seen so much gold coin in one place in all my life. Certainly not when I had worked for the king’s moneyer in London, for he had minted silver coin, nor even when the Basileus had flung gold bounty to his courtiers in the audience hall of the Great Palace. Here were riches that were beyond my comprehension. Surprisingly, the entire payment was in coin, mostly Arab dinars, but also nomisma from the imperial mint. I could not see a single item like a gold necklace or a jewelled band whose value would have to be assessed. I had no idea what a hundred thousand dinars looked like, and there was no time to count, so I turned round and waved to the boy, gesturing for him to go. The last I saw of him he was racing up across the sand dunes to join his father’s deputation.

  ‘Thorgils, you are a genius!’ exulted Harald as he came ashore, opened one of the panniers and scooped up a handful of coins. I had never seen him look so pleased. His normally harsh expression was replaced with a look of utter pleasure.

  ‘You have the Gods to thank,’ I said, seizing my chance. ‘They clearly favour you.’

  ‘Yes, the Gods,’ he said. ‘Freya must have wept for many nights and days.’

  For a moment I did not know what he was talking about, as I had been away from my homeland for so long that my Old Beliefs were growing dim. Then I remembered that Freya, go
ddess of wealth, had cried tears of gold when she lost her husband.

  ‘There’s only one detail you have overlooked,’ said Harald. His cautionary tone brought a sudden chill to our conversation. ‘The Greek sailor who identified the emir’s son for us. My own men will keep their mouths shut about this treasure when we get back to Syracuse, because they will get their share. But Greeks never hold their tongues. Even if the fisherman were handsomely rewarded, he would boast if he got back home, and Maniakes would get to hear what happened. Thorgils, I tidied up your plan a little. The Greek is dead.’

  SEVEN

  MANIAKES NEVER LEARNED the truth. As our vessel entered Syracuse harbour, we passed an imperial dromon beating out to sea. Twenty-four hours earlier she had arrived with an order signed in purple ink, stripping Maniakes of his command. Now the dromon was carrying the former autokrator to Constantinople to face the Basileus and his eunuch brother John. Maniakes had made the error of shaming their brother-in-law, Stephen, commander of the imperial fleet, by accusing him of allowing the emir to escape by sea. The rebuke had been made in public, Maniakes once again losing his temper and shouting at Stephen that he was useless and effeminate while he beat him about the head with a whip. Stephen had reacted like the true palace politician he was: he secretly sent word to the Orphanotrophus that Maniakes had grown overbearing with his military success and was plotting to seize the throne. Nothing was calculated to arouse the Orphanotrophus’s hostility more, because John the Eunuch would do anything to maintain his family’s grip on power.

  We could scarcely believe our good fortune. With Stephen censured for allowing the emir’s escape, our own treason was unlikely to be discovered, and Maniakes’s disgrace gave Harald his excuse to declare that he too was withdrawing from the Sicilian expedition. Our flotilla, as soon as it reassembled, also set sail for Constantinople, and from there three of our vessels continued onward for the Pontic Sea, and eventually for Kiev. In their bilges lay hidden the bulk of the emir’s ransom: their crews were returning home as rich as they had dreamed of. Their departure suited Harald, as it left fewer men to let slip the truth about our faithlessness. Only a hundred of his original war band remained, and the army secretariat in Constantinople judged the number insufficient for an independent unit. So, in recognition of our contribution to the Sicilian campaign, they removed us from the Varangians-without-the-walls and attached us directly to the imperial Life Guard. To add to the irony, Harald was decorated for his services to the empire, and elevated to the rank of spatharokandidatos. This entitled him to wear a cloak of white silk and carry a jewelled court sword at ceremonials. I, of course, found myself once again an imperial guardsman.