When the show was done, Ulf led the way backstage. An attendant protested vainly; Harald picked him up and set him in a corner with his face to the wall. Halldor flung open the door of the women's dressing room.
Ulf spread his arms grandly. "Who's for a barge on the water?" he called.
A tall girl did not coo and flutter like the rest, but drew nigh, smiling. "I've heard tales about a king among the Varangians, a mountain of a man," she said. Harald laughed and threw an arm around her waist.
Coin made the manager agreeable when he arrived. The Norsemen picked half a dozen lasses to come along. A pleasure boat, already hired, waited at the docks. Its cabins were rich with cushions, carpets, tapers, refreshments. Musicians played as oars sent the craft out upon the strait.
Harald led the tall girl into one room. "What is your name?" he asked.
A shadow crossed her. "I am called Bernice. But what does it matter?"
His hands fumbled at the clasps of her dress. "Why, one as fair as you matters greatly."
Bitterness edged her voice. "And when I am old and shriveled, and wait in my rags for whatever man may come by, down in the shadow of the Hippodrome arches? I could have wed once, but he seemed a dull sort. Now ..." She snapped the words off and her mouth was suddenly hungry on his, as if she would draw forgetfulness from him.
But she was smiling again and combing tousled hair when they went out on deck to watch the shore slide by. In this wise did the day pass.
At dusk, when the land was growing starry with the lights of houses, the barge moored and the warriors said farewell to their partners. As the women left, Halldor wiped his mouth to get rid of the rouge that clung there. "I'm thirsty," he complained.
"Too much wine," said Ulf. "The cure for that is more."
"Belike so. Anyhow, I'd fain be among men for a while."
"Not all night, I hope. But follow me; I know a place."
Ulf guided his friends down broad avenues and lesser streets until they were in an alley where flat-roofed houses gloomed above muck and trash. There they found an inn, low-ceilinged, areek with charcoal braziers, its benches full of drinkers, a hard lot. "Hm," said Ulf, "where shall we sit?"
Harald stepped over to three who had been muttering to each other and tapped a shoulder. "I beg your pardon," he said politely, "but it's our turn for your seats."
"What?" Dark faces turned furiously up toward him . . . and up and up. Having no room in here to stand straight, he hulked as well as loomed over them. The Northerners were unarmed as law required, save for knives they had tucked under their tunics, but the hand that Harald laid around a man's neck was unfairly large.
A hush fell on the taproom, and quivered.
"Thank you so much," said Harald. He lifted the fellow with a single movement of one arm, dumped him on the floor, and took his seat. The two adjoining decided that it was not worthwhile making a fuss, and both slunk out. Elsewhere, folk eased; a few laughed.
"Wine!" roared Ulf. "And so help me Njordh, Frey, and almighty Thor, if you've watered it I'll drown you in it."
The landlord scuttled toward him, bearing a loaded tray. "Have you no goblets of a fit size?" Harald snorted. He took the nearest and drained it at a gulp. "Well, fetch us a jug and we'll pour for ourselves."
"At once, despotes," the innkeeper said. Oil dripped from every word. "May I ask who it is I have the honor of serving?"
"You may," Harald replied, "but you will get no answer." He turned to his companions and added in Norse: "I suppose my position requires I be nameless."
"It's not just easy to be nameless when you're seven feet tall and a prince of Norway," said Ulf. "Oh, well, here comes the jug. Skaal, everybody!"
Halldor clinked beakers with him. "Skaal ... to victory for us, wherever we go."
"And to us ourselves," said Ulf.
"And to the damnation of Kalf Arnason, Thori Hound, and many more," added Harald.
"Skaal to the Emperor," said Ulf loyally, not being able to think of a better pledge at the moment.
"And the Empress," leered Halldor.
The landlord hovered nigh. "Urn, uh, despotes," he whimpered, "you have not paid."
Harald scowled. "You should pay us to drink this horse piss."
"Now, now, we want no trouble," said Ulf, and belched. "You know me, Alexis. And me, I know what the going prices are. Here. As for the goblets you first brought, I think they should be on the house, inasmuch as we rid it of those rowdies."
The landlord shrugged and departed. "Where were we?" Halldor wondered. "Oh, aye. We were skaaling. Here's to the early frying of John the Orphanotrophos."
Ulf grinned. "How Hell's griddle will sizzle! They've a saying here: 'If you have a eunuch, kill him; if you haven't, buy one and kill him.' "
"Ah, pity the poor devil," said Harald. "He must do something with his time, right?" He refilled his cup. "To Olaf the Stout!"
"A man indeed, from what I've heard," remarked Halldor. "I think he died young because they needed a good captain for the Heavenly armies."
Harald nodded.
"We're in grave danger of becoming serious," warned Ulf. "Here's to good King—no, Knjaz Jaroslav."
"To his daughter Ellisif," Harald said afterward. "A sweet child, and her dowry won't be small."
They skaaled Ellisif, and they skaaled Ingigerdh, and they skaaled the kings of Norway since Harald Fairhair, and they skaaled Ingolf of Vik who had first settled Iceland, and they skaaled Eirik the Red because he won Greenland and his son Leif who found a country further west where grapes grew wild, and they skaaled St. George, and they skaaled the Pope and the Patriarch both so as not to be partial, and they skaaled the good men in the tavern with them and bought a round o.f drinks, and they skaaled Sighvat the skald for his fine verses, and about that time Harald stood up and bawled forth some of the Bjarkamaal for the company, who did not understand a word but cheered anyhow, and then Halldor said he needed fresh air as well as the alley for letting his water, and Ulf pointed out that if they kept on drinking they would be of no use for anything else they might find tonight, so they got up and bowed to their new friends and went out the door with Harald's head nearly taking the lintel along.
2
A salt mist blew through the darkness. Ulf said something about knowing where a good dice house was, if only he could be sure which way was north. As he groped his way toward the street, his hands closed on a face. He slipped his palms downward. "Male," he sighed, and let go.
A lanthorn bobbed around the edge of a wall, borne by one who peered ahead. Shadowy behind him came several more. "That's them, the barbarians!" he yelped. "Have at them!"
The band shuffled forward. There was just enough light for Harald to recognize one of the three whom he had sent from their bench. They must have fetched others to help them get revenge, and, of course, to plunder the well-filled Varangian purses. Knives gleamed, sticks twirled.
"Ha!" shouted Ulf joyously, and fed knuckles to the nearest face. A staff hit Harald's elbow. Pain flashed most of the drunkenness out of him. Angered, he snatched the rod away and brought it down himself. It broke on the crown of its owner, who fell loglike.
"Yuk-hai-saa-saa!" chanted Ulf, the old viking war yell. His knife was out and his cloak twirled about his left arm as a shield. Halldor got back to back with him and they slashed unsteadily but with a right good will. Harald grabbed a ragged dalmatic, drew the wearer close, knocked out some teeth, picked him up by the ankles when he crumpled and swung him against the attackers.
The tavern door opened again and sailors erupted forth. They knew not who was fighting or why, but this seemed too good a brawl to miss. The alley roiled.
Feet tramped, weapons clashed. "The city guards," gasped Halldor. "Best we scramble out of here. Wouldn't do for you to get arrested, Harald, would it?"
"Up, then," said the prince, and raised the Icelander to his shoulders. "No, don't hang there like a slice of wet bread. Grab the roof here by us."
"I have it."
Halldor chinned himself onto the flat top of the building, lay belly down, and stretched a long arm to help Ulf. Between them, those two got Harald up.
Heavy official feet clattered below, amidst sounds of breaking heads and cursing men. Harald groped to the far side of the roof. It was only a small jump to the next.
"That was fun!" panted Ulf. "What shall we do next?"
"Let's see how far aloft we can go," Harald proposed.
They went from roof to roof. "The guards will hear about three Varangian rioters," Halldor warned. "I'd not put it past them to stake out the Brazen House for latecomers. We'd better go to earth somewhere until tomorrow."
They crossed the roofs till they reached a street too wide to overleap. A tomcat, crouching there, gave them what Harald thought was a look of understanding.
"'Shall we scramble back down?" he wondered aloud.
Halldor squinted into the mist, now whitened by a moon that it hid. Droplets glistened in his mustache. "Do I hear voices underfoot?" he asked.
Ulf put an ear to the deck. "Aye," he said. Prowling about, he found a trapdoor. "Well, well." He opened it. Light, noise, warm smoky air trickled forth. "Seems promising, eh, boys?"
A ladder led to a cubicle with a door. Beyond the door was a bedroom. The girl and the man in the bed seemed surprised when two strangers and one giant stalked past in search of a corridor. "What sort of place is this?" squalled the man.
"Do go on," said Harald politely, and closed the hall door behind his party. They took a stair down to a large chamber where more girls were, as well as men who fondled them, drank and gambled. "Greeting," said Harald to their astonishment.
"A kindly saint has been with us," Ulf decided. "Here we have everything we may need for the rest of this night."
The dice favored them, too.
3
As dawn stole thin and gray across the world,
Harald, Ulf and Halldor made their way toward Hagia Sophia, since it would be well if they offered some prayers for their sinful selves, and where better than in the cathedral?
Halldor walked unsurely, mumbling that his skull was athump and he should never have left the fells and firths of Iceland. Ulf sang to himself. Harald began reckoning up everything he must do later this day, yes, even paperwork, the eternal Byzantine paperwork. But how else could you steer an empire that reached from the Balkan Mountains to the plains of Mesopotamia?
The Church of the Sacred Wisdom stood immense in both size and age above its square. How many folk through the centuries had dwelt in sight of it, and prayed and wept and been gladdened by its presence, how many lives had it seen go from puling babes to trembling grandsires? Down in dust they were, Harald thought: down in darkness and silence, forgotten utterly on the earth that had claimed them; but the emperors who raised this house, they were remembered.
Some beggars whined on the steps, not many as yet, and pulled aside rags to show their sores. He threw them small coins and went on in.
A huge serenity took him unto itself. Marble glimmered underfoot and up the walls, between dimly visible pillars, to the galleries. Above eight porphyry columns, the main dome arched so high that it seemed a lesser Heaven, where the wings of angels went whispering. Stiff and stern, Apostles and saints and Christ Lord of All watched those few mortals who had crept in here for the early service. Gold, silver, rubies, emeralds, diamonds cast back what light there was, like stars in yonder firmament. Below, candles were like distant, welcoming hearth-fires. The air hung chill, heavy with incense.
Truly the glory of God dwelt here, thought Harald; and yet it was men that had built this thing, men who sweated and laughed and scratched after fleas, drank, fornicated, married, begot, fretted about money, sneezed, farted, shivered when winter cold bit their bones, aged, died as untidily as men always die . . . No, he thought anew, the work was not theirs, they had been no more than tools of the Imperial workmen, who were the true builders. Was that right? Seen from eternity, had Justinian and his successors been, themselves, tools . . . maybe not the best in the Master Craftsman's kit? Harald cast that monkish question from him.
Those present for the Mass were mostly humble folk, huddled close together. Apart from them stood one family that appeared rich. There were no seats, nor an altar to be seen: only a low rail before the ikonostasis, though that screen of carven stone was amply- fair to behold.
The three silver doors in it opened as a choir broke into song. The Mass that followed was not like the Catholic rites of home, but by now Harald had attended enough that were Orthodox to feel at ease with them, even when he must prostrate himself.
This one, however, did not lave his spirit as he had hoped; his mind was too busy with plans and rivalries.
Afterward, leaving, he passed near the family he had spied within. Those persons and their attendants walked aloofly, in gorgeous garb, though somehow they seemed less haughty than most nobles. A young girl joined them, come down from the curtained galleries where women worshiped out of the sight of men. Despite her heavy robes and veil, Harald was struck by how gracefully she moved and by her dark, lustrous eyes. He stopped to watch from the stairs until she had entered a waiting litter and was borne off.
"Who were those?" he asked.
Ulf shrugged. "High-born folk, but I've never seen them before. No doubt they live outside the city."
It might only be that his head was a little strange after so much carousing, but Harald remembered the girl for a long time.
V
Of Harald and Gyrgi
1
The next spring troops were ordered to Syria, where border warfare with the Saracens had grown unduly troublesome. They included a large Varangian corps under Harald. In this he suspected the hand of John, who was suspicious of the Norseman's friendship with Novgorod and thus anxious to get him out of Constantinople. Harald was not unpleased; he had grown restless from a winter of dull guard duty and duller court functions, while the campaign to come offered good chance of booty.
The host went south across Anatolia, through green valleys, crossing ruddy mountain crags, rich fields and richer towns. This countryside was peaceful; even the lowliest peasant looked well fed. Though every commoner must keep weapons and be skilled in their use against a day of need, Halldor remarked how none went armed. "And at home a man takes a spear along when he goes to fetch in the cows."
"That's due to the Imperial guards and police," Harald said., "What a power the Emperor has, to keep men reined in over so many miles!"
Halldor scowled. "The power of armies. Weapons or no, these folk are at the mercy of the court. I like it not."
"One king, one power will make Miklagardh the mightiest realm on earth," Harald argued. "At home we rip each other asunder."
"Yet we may still sneeze without a royal by-your-leave," the Icelander snapped, and edged his horse away.
Indeed, Harald thought, the regular army of New Rome embodied strength. Each man of any sort, scutatus, archer, whatever he might be, was outfitted like his fellows; foot soldiers marched in step like an iron caterpillar, the highway smoked with dust under a thousand boots that struck it at once. But the heart of the army was the cataphract, the heavy lancer, sheathed in steel on a great horse that wore its own armor. When a line of those men charged, the earth shook, and the air thundered, and few stood firm before them. Light cavalry trotted on the wings, bows ready to hand. Then the war engines came trundling, catapults, mangonels, siege towers knocked down to carry in wagons; and the hospital corps and the quartermasters and a supply train followed all, snaking back farther than he could see. Lanceheads rose and fell, a wave went along them like the ripple in a wheatfield, banners burned above the dust.
In Christ's name, he thought, to have such an instrument for his own!
The land sloped downward as days went by, until they were in the lower hills. There they met the main Byzantine host, and tents bloomed for miles around.
Harald went among the campfires to the great embroidered pavilion of
the Archestrategos, Georgios Maniakes, who had already made a name for himself as a bold and cunning leader. Admitted past the guards, Harald entered, canvas brushing his head, and bowed to the man who sat behind a table poring over lists.
"Ah . . . Captain Araltes." Georgios nodded curtly. He was a stocky man with a proud dark face, his garments rough and simple. "I only wished to know if you've anything to report of your march hither. Sickness? Incidents?"
TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn Page 7