TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn

by Poul Anderson

  But in the late afternoon, the Imperialists did raise the corsairs, whose smaller and doubtless foul-bottomed craft had less speed, though they looked rakish enough. A roar went up among the Varangians. Harald climbed the mast and peered ahead, sensing a thrill run through his body. These would be the first Moslems he had seen, other than slaves or traders in Constantinople. Their force was somewhat less than that of the pursuit.

  The chelands darted forward like unslipped hounds. Harald heard faintly a clamor of trumpets as the pirates readied for battle, saw their galleys go into formation and spit stones from engines mounted on the decks. Then fire sprang from the chelands, the blue Greek fire which burned on water, pumped from nozzles by men sworn to keep the secret of its making. A gout of flame ran up the rigging of one enemy craft, smoke lifted thick, then red and yellow burst free. As Harald's dromond wallowed up, he saw men run screaming, ablaze. Most leaped overboard in search of a better death.

  "Damnation," Harald grumbled, "will we get no fight at all?"

  "Oh, we will that," Halldor told him. "Only wait and see."

  Fire took out just three vessels; otherwise it missed, or hit but was quenched. Meanwhile the Greeks closed, and it became a strife of ship against ship. The Thracian shouted orders. His steersmen sent the dromond against a chosen galley. That one veered to avoid the ram, but the beak sheared through oars and Saracen rowers shrieked as shafts recoiled on them and broke bones. The Byzantines had drawn their own oars in on that side. Hulls grated together, grapnels bit fast, the linked craft became a battlefield.

  Harald had already marshaled his Northerners. Now he led them in boarding the enem y. Dark, tur baned faces glared at him from behind shields, spears, uplifted blades. The king's son attacked a man in the line who was almost black of skin. The westering sun flared off eyeballs, teeth, curved swords that whistled about and downward:

  He caught that blow on his shield. It had taken him weary, often bruising hours of practice with wooden weapons, to master the Southern war gear. A shield here was metal-rimmed, meant to deflect rather than catch a hostile edge; it was held by loops through which the forearm passed. A fighter moved it only slightly, yet it was in its own way a tool of attack, letting him strike past top and sides while he pressed close or withdrew to gain room for a swing.

  Steel dinned. Harald hewed with care, seeking an opening. His was the greater reach, weight, strength, but strugglers were still crowded together; he almost had to elbow men aside to get at his chosen prey. Then suddenly he saw his chance. His straight blade whirred, struck the wrist behind the scimitar, made blood spout. The pirate wailed and stumbled backward. Harald followed.

  Defensive line breached, the fray spilled widely across the deck. Harald finished off his first opponent. Hardly could he turn to see what was happening elsewhere, but three more were upon him. Metal banged on his helmet, rattled along his byrnie. He sought a corner where he could make a stand, but the three kept him surrounded as wolves might harry an elk.

  All at once, the corsair circling to get at him from behind uttered a yell. Harald struck aside the blade of a comrade and turned on his heel. Ulf Uspaksson was there, an ax awhirl in his hands. The Saracen lay dying at his feet. The Icelander whooped and smashed in the helmet of another. Harald killed the third.

  "Thanks!" gasped the king's son. "Best we stay together."

  Ulf nodded. "Bare is brotherless back," he said, a word old in the North.

  They sought their fellows. Harald bellowed orders to get into formation, fight like soldiers and not like tavern brawlers. The Varangians heeded, although, perhaps, they would have done this anyway. Most of them knew as much about war as their chief did. The pirates fought desperately, calling on their God; a few Norsemen forgot themselves and shouted the names of Odhinn and Thor.

  Ulf took a slung stone in the nose and lurched, his face a red mask. Ever after, his nose was flattened and crooked. However, it was no great wound and he went on fighting.

  When the ship was gained, Harald returned to his own and had it rowed to join another battle. The task had almost been completed, though. When the big soft stars of the Southern heaven bloomed, they heard a hymn of thanksgiving from the victorious Greeks.

  Subjects of the Emperor who had been aboard, taken to sell, were freed. A share of proceeds from the loot that was regained would help them start life anew in their homes; though some had been so abused that Harald wondered if they would care to try. The pirates themselves took their places. Those men were not exchangeable like ordinary prisoners of war, and would ha rdly make safe slaves. The Thra cian captain explained, '"We will take them ashore and impale them."

  Harald was at sea till the autumn storms grew too fierce for these ships. He fought against Saracen regulars as well as outlaws, had the best of every encounter, even took and burned a couple of strongholds. When he came back, to a city of rain and chilly nights, he was counted a proven chief. The Varangians flocked to him and demanded him for their commander.

  2

  He set aside most of his share in the summer's plunder, entrusting it to a Russian of known honesty to take to Jaroslav with the trading fleet. The Grand Prince would keep it safe for him. This practice he followed throughout the time he was in Constantino ple. Though part of a Varangian's pay was held back until he left the service here, what Harald received made him well off. He did have to buy a great many things at first, and he wanted a house in the city itself, which would be costly.

  Before he could put this plan into effect, he received word that the Empress desired audience with him.

  "Why her?" he asked Ulf, who had been here longer and picked up all the gossip in taverns and bawdyhouses. "I suppose it's this matter of setting me over the Guard, but the Emperor himself—"

  "Oh, yes, in time, no doubt." Ulf hoisted a goblet and drained his wine thirstily. "But the Empress Zoe had an eye for the men. Be careful, or you're apt to find yourself in bed with her."

  Harald considered what he had heard during idle watches at sea. Zoe was the second of the old Emperor's three daughters. The third was disfigured by disease and spent her life in a convent. The other two, Theodora and Zoe, had dwelt long in the Gynaeceum, the women's quarters, supposedly hidden from the world. These Byzantines kept their women secluded in a way that none of the free-striding girls in the North would have suffered. It worked well enough for Theodora, who was ugly, strong-willed and pious, but there had been some racy tales about Zoe even in those early days. She was fifty when the Emperor got her married off.

  That was to Romanus Arghyros, a gentle old nobleman who was forced to it by threat of blinding; his wife entered a convent to save him, and he wed the princess and was presently crowned. He wore himself out with her and with the aphrodisiacs he took for his flagging vigor; she made up for lost time elsewhere. She also forced her sister Theodora to take the veil lest a conspiracy arise against her.

  Meanwhile, a Paphlagonian eunuch named John, a monk, became powerful at court and introduced one of his brothers, a handsome young fellow named Michael, to court circles. Both the Emperor and Empress took a great fancy to the young man.

  Ulf snickered. "Michael used to be sent to the Imperial bedchamber to rub His Majesty's feet," he said. "It were a wonder if he never touched the Empress' too. ... He has a falling sickness, but they say he's a lusty one otherwise, and he and Zoe had fine sport even while the old man lived."

  When Romanus died on Holy Thursday, 1034, there was good reason to believe that Zoe had had him poisoned. That same night Michael was wed to her and crowned Emperor.

  "The strange thing is, the people still care for her," said Ulf. "They'll tell enough rowdy tales of her carryings on, but she remains their mother, appointed by God Himself, and they like her all the better for her bawdiness. They save their hate for John the monk. He's the real king, and you'd best keep on the lee side of him."

  Harald nodded. He had heard enough already about the heavy taxes which John was laying on the realm, the corruption
and spying at court.

  He donned his best clothes and rode with an escort of Varangians to that city within a city which was the palace. He went clean-shaven now, to seem less the hairy barbarian, but on Ulf's advice wore long hair and his Northern shirt and breeches on all save the greatest occasions. "Why be a poor Greek when you could be a good Norseman? They like newness here, in spite of all their ritual."

  Courtiers led him first, to his surprise, to John the Orphanotrophos. It was a small enough title for so mighty a man, director of charitable institutions, and the office was not overly large or ornamented. A lovely ikon of gold and jewels, God's Mother stiff and strange in the Byzantine manner but still somehow glowing with mystery, hung over the chair.

  John himself was another astonishment. Harald had seen the rolling blobs, beardless and twitter-voiced, which were eunuchs, and had awaited something of that sort. But the Paphlagonian, though not tall, was powerfully built; his cheeks were smooth and fat, but a strong jaw cragged from them and the small black eyes glittered almost fiercely around the great hooked nose. He wore the humble robe of a monk, but his feet were cased in silken buskins.

  "God be with you," he said, extending a hand in casual blessing and then lowering it to be kissed.

  Harald bent the knee and bowed his head, however much it galled him.

  "I have heard you spoken of as a fine soldier." John's voice was high, but it had a ring to it.

  "Thank you, despotes." Harald spoke Greek quite easily now; his sense of smallness was gone and he remembered that he could break any man's back in his hands. "It pleased God to grant us some victories."

  John nodded at the courtiers, who bowed and slipped out; only his personal guards remained, and they were like furniture. "Enough of this formality. I want to talk to you." The beady eyes locked with Harald's and hardly blinked. "They say the Varangians want you to lead them, since their present captain is ready to go home; but that is a high post to give so new a man."

  "I think I can fill it well, despotes."

  "Oh, no doubt of that." John smiled coldly, and Harald saw a cancer eating at one corner of his mouth. "Too well, perhaps." He pointed to the books which stood in fair bindings on his shelves. "You have not read those histories, but they relate no few cases of men who got near the throne and then sought to climb that last step. Sometimes they succeeded, too. Once, in Old Rome, the Praetorian Guard put the whole Empire up at auction. I'd not want that to happen again."

  Harald swallowed an angry reply and said: "If you mean that I might think of making myself Emperor, then let me only say that I am not so mad."

  "Not now," said John. "But power . . . that's a curious drug, and habit-forming. There are other drugs too . . . poisons, for instance. Now just what are your plans?"

  "To serve His Sacred Majesty, as I swore to do."

  "But beyond that? You're a prince in your own country, Captain Araltes. Have you never thought of returning?"

  "Of course I have!" blurted Harald.

  "I see. Well, you will understand that it would not do to get the Guard organized around you only to have you start home at once."

  "That would not be for years, despotes. I must get money, and let my enemies wear themselves out against each other, and—"

  "That's shrewd thinking, I must say." John stroked his chin. Sunlight came through the arched window to flash in fiery shards off his rings. "You have the stuff of a good general, Captain Araltes, but a general needs trained men. Have you ever thought of building up an army for your return, among the Varangians here?"

  "I could scarce do that, despotes," said Harald. "They come from all over the North, and will go to their homes when their service here is done. No, a would-be king depends on the Thing at home, the folk meeting, to hail him king, and must raise most of his forces among the yeomen there."

  "I see. That is very interesting. It reminds me of passages in Tacitus. Well . . ."

  It was not till he had been dismissed and sent on to the Empress that Harald realized John had drawn from him all his plans and learned the limits of all he could hope to do. There had never been any fear of an outlander getting the crown; the whole realm would have revolted. Briefly, he wanted to go back and cut the eunuch down. Then he grinned admiringly, for it had been done with wondrous craft. Give honor to John the Orphanotrophos!

  3

  Zoe Porphyrogenita, Empress of the Romans, sat in a room which was one wash of soft colors, a peacock mosaic on the floor and the long gaunt golden images of saints on the wall. Serving maids, decorously veiled, stood about to fan her and hold forth trays of the sweetmeats she loved; an armed guard waited at the entrance to her apartments. Through the air floated a richness of the perfumes which Zoe was forever concocting.

  When Harald had made obeisance and stood before her, he was astonished. He had awaited a raddled harridan such as leered from brothel windows down in the slums, but at fifty-six Zoe was still almost young. She was of medium height, her plumpness not yet become fat, her hair a heavy light-brown heap of burnished tresses. The face was youthful, nearly childish, with large dark eyes under thick brows, a delicately hooked nose, a full and somewhat petulant mouth; her skin was milk-white. She scorned the veil and stiff robes of a lady, and wore light filmy garments under a barnacle crust of jewels. Surely, thought Harald, this could not be the woman who plotted the murder of a harmless old husban d and then ran off to crown the man who had cuckolded him!

  But he remembered Gunnhild the witch, wife of Eirik Blood-ax. She had also been very beautiful, they said, to the day she was hurled into a Danish bog to drown. He stood with eyes respectfully lowered, remembering that he was unarmed and a crook of one small finger could hew him in pieces.

  Zoe smiled and looked boldly up and down his towering height. "You are very big," she said. "1 have seen few bigger men, and they were freaks or slaves."

  Harald mumbled something ending in "Your Sacred Majesty."

  "You must have had many adventures," went on the Empress. "Sit down and tell us about them, Araltes."

  A chair was brought and Harald lowered himself to its edge, wondering what to do with his hands. "There's little to tell, despoina," he said. "One fight must sound much like another to the Empress."

  "Oh, but you have seen so much," said Zoe. "Tell me, is it true that in the North a girl must agree if she is to be married?"

  "Not under the law, despoina. But few fathers would make a daughter wed a man she disliked. That could lead to trouble."

  "But you are always having trouble up there, are you not? I hear about fights, feuds . . ." Zoe's rather small voice faded vaguely off.

  "Wars, of course, despoina, and a man is bound to avenge his kin. But no one fights without a reason, unless he is a berserker."

  "A what? Well, anyhow, you carry off women and keep them, do you not? For yourselves, I mean. What do they say to that?"

  Harald found himself flushing at some of her questions. He had only heard of one way to make love. About his own adventures in bed he did not like to talk, but since she insisted he made up some good stories. She listened eagerly. Several of the maids could not keep from giggling. Harald sweated and wondered when he would be allowed to go.

  "I hope to serve you and His Sacred Majesty well," he said at last, in hopes of dismissal.

  "Oh, I am sure you will, Araltes. A strong man like you ... It isn't my duty and they may frown on it, but I'll put in a good word for you, I promise. We have so many enemies, all those dreadful Saracens and . . . and all. And the Pope in Rome says we are heretics, imagine that!" Zoe leaned forward breathlessly. "You will have to fight very hard. God be with you in your battles."

  "I trust He will, despoina."

  "Remember that you fight for the Emperor," she said with a sudden earnestness, "and that God has set him over us, and that in spite of those horrible stories you hear Michael is the best and most gallant Emperor we have ever had." A rush of blood went up her rouged cheeks, and something glowed in her eyes. "Rememb
er that, Araltes! The Emperor is not well, but he bears it bravely and . . . and . . . well, he is the best in the world."

  As Harald left, he reflected that in one respect Ulf had been wrong. Even this mist-brained creature could love.

  IV

  How Three Made Merry

  1

  After a time, an official informed Harald that he would indeed be the next commander of the Varangian Guard. Since that would require dignity of him, he decided to celebrate freely while he still could.

  With pleasantly jingling purses, he, Ulf and Halldor pushed through the crowds and racket of the streets. It was a cool, sharp day, wherein a wind raised whitecaps on the Bosporus and rocked ships berthed in the Golden Horn. Almost, he thought with a little wistfulness, this was Norse weather.

  The Hippodrome saw use only a few times a year, but there were always the theaters, and his band sought one. Never had he seen jugglers so skillful, acrobats so lithe, magicians so crafty; it was as if Elf Hill had opened before him. Lions, tigers, bears, elephants danced, balanced, bowed their heads at the will of one brightly clad man. Comely young women writhed onto the stage and disrobed while music tweedled lustfully. The Northerners beckoned again and again to wine sellers in the aisles.