"In two or three weeks, however long we need to make ready. I'll have you in later with our other captains to hammer out the plans. Meanwhile, go arrange for the Normans to be quartered and drilled with your Varangians." Georgios went into details. Having ended his explanation, he asked, "Do you understand? Good day, then." Immediately he returned to his paperwork.
Harald went out and sought the Norman chief. Odo Fitz Maurice sat in a house drinking with a dozen cronies. They had nearly wrecked the place, tapestries hung ragged and tables were hacked and a peacock mosaic had been used for crossbow practice. Guards in hauberk and long surcoats admitted Harald, who ducked his head as he came into the dining hall.
Odo glanced about. He was a lean, richly clad man, his black hair cropped short and shaven at the back, his features hard and blue-chinned. "Well, a giant to add to the circus!" he said in broken Greek.
"Speak more respectfully." Harald tossed the parchment given him by Georgios onto the table. "I am your new captain. There are the orders."
"So." Odo studied him for a space. A drunken mumble ran among his fellows.
"We had best talk of this," said Harald mildly.
"Quite so." Odo's tone was sour. "Be seated."
Harald cocked his left brow still higher. "I belong at the head of the table," he said. His backbone prickled.
Odo made some remark in French. His men guffawed.
"That will do!" Harald stepped over in one stride, seized Odo and lifted him in the air. A moment he held the squirming, cursing man aloft, then flung him to the floor and sat down in his chair.
Odo leaped up, spitting like a cat. A dagger flamed in his hand. The other Normans were on their feet, roaring. Harald stared at him. "Be seated," he said.
"You whoreson outlander!" Odo sprang. Harald snatched a massive silver goblet from the table and hurled it with deadly aim. Odo went down with a smashed nose, his face one mask of blood.
Harald drew his sword and struck the table with the flat so wood and metal boomed. "Before God, I am the chief here!" he bellowed. "Does anyone else care to dispute it?"
Still he remained seated, but they remembered his height and drew back, snarling at him. "Who is the next in command among you?" he barked.
"I . . .I am," said one unsurely.
"Then you are in charge, under me. Odo what's-his-name will mend his ways on bread and water until we sail. The next such insubordination means a beheading." Harald put the horn at his hip to his mouth and blew.
His escort shoved in past the sentries, axes aloft, grinning at the Normans. Harald jerked a thumb toward the half-conscious Odo. "Put that dog in irons, Ulf. And now, friends, shall we talk of plans?"
Thereafter the Normans obeyed him. When next he saw Georgios, the Archestrategos remarked, "I heard how you tamed your wolf pack. You like not mutiny, do you?"
"Indeed not," said Harald.
"Suppose I had tried to so likewise to you, three years ago?"
"Well, kyrios, you did not."
Georgios laughed.
VI
How Gyrgi Was Angered
1
Harald was two years in Sicily.
Having taken Messina by a hard and bloody fight, Georgios Maniakes swiftly subdued the larger part of the island and built citadels to keep the folk tame. But this rugged land had many chiefs who from their castles ruled like small kings and must be subdued one by one. Harald and his men, with some Greeks to help as engineers and in other skilled work, were sent out on this task.
The castles he must overcome were well-stocked fortresses surrounded by turreted stone walls, not lightly to be seized. Harald conquered his first one by a clever strategy. He had spread nets and lime to catch birds; it was still the nesting season. Splinters of wood smeared with wax and sulfur were bound to the birds and set alight; the birds flew back to their nests and started fires throughout the buildings. The defenders gave in. As was the common practice, Harald granted quarter and did not loot the place. He took tribute and waited until Georgios sent a garrison.
Summer was well along when he came to the next stronghold, so he could not use the same trick, nor did he have luck with fire arrows. He settled down as for a siege. The castle stood on a flat plain baked hard by the sun; a nearby stream ran low between its banks. Thus a tunnel could be dug, unseen by the Saracens, with the water carrying away the dirt. When it was finished, Harald led his warriors crawling through. They broke out into a hall where men sat at meat, expecting no such uninvited guests. When the gates were opened the rest of the Varangians came in, and that was that.
The third castle was very large, with moats around it that forbade sapping even had there been a river so handily close. Harald ringed it with tents and camp-fires but made no move to attack. When some days had gone by, the defenders were jeering, often throwing open their gates. Those who knew Greek shouted to the Varangians to come in and be killed like the poultry they were.
Ulf sought Harald in his tent. 4'When will we strike?" he asked. "'The men are grumbling, and you know how readily sickness breaks out when folk stay camped for a long time."
"I know," said Harald. He sat resting his chin in one hand, eyes half closed. Outside, the sun danced in a haze of heat.
"We could wade across the ditch," said Ulf.
"And be slain under the walls," answered Harald. "They have but to throw spears and boiling water down on us."
Ulf caught a louse and cracked it between his teeth. "Well, I would be glad of a bath," he said and laughed.
"No," said Harald, "tell the men we'll give the foe back his mockery. Tell them to play games every day, just beyond bowshot, and leave off their weapons when they do, to show how little we fear yonder heathen."
Ulf snorted, but seeing Harald's look he did not argue further.
As the days dragged by, Harald's men amusing themselves with ball games and wrestling matches, he saw how the defenders had lost their wariness. His Northmen clearly were making a long siege. The Saracens began to dawdle about on the walls, unarmed, watching the sport; their gates remained open for the sake of the breeze. They knew they could close the fortress and take up arms long before a real assault could be mounted.
When he thought the time was ripe, Harald summoned Halldor. "Now we can go to work," he said.
The Icelander was astonished. "Have you decided to try storming them after all?" he asked.
"Yes, with a trick I could not speak of erenow, lest the secret leak out. Tomorrow let a number of the Varangians go forth to play as always, but let them have swords under their cloaks and helmets under their hats. Work as close as you can to the main gate, and then attack. I'll bring the rest of our lads after you."
Halldor looked doubtful, but pride would not let him protest. "I'll gather fifty trustworthy men," he said.
No others could yet be told.
Harald slept little that night, but in the morning, Halldor's band were out tossing a ball between two teams. Their shouts, that sounded like mirth, were orders in the Norse tongue. No shot was loosed at them even when they reached the moat's edge.
Then Halldor winded his horn. The Varangians whipped forth their swords, wrapped cloaks around their left arms and surged into the ditch. Splashing through the green-scummed water, they were in the gateway before winches could be activated to shut them out.
Now haste was everything, for they could not last long against so many Saracens as boiled around them. Harald sounded the charge. But his unwarned host was maddeningly slow to uncoil itself and lumber forward.
Dead men lay thick in the entrance, the ill-armed Varangians were being slain where they stood. Harald rushed up the inner slope of the moat, his standard bearer toiling alongside. He was a beardless youth, eager and merry, who had but lately come to Miklagardh from some Danish farmstead. As Harald reached the battle, the boy crumpled and went down, an arrow in his breast.
Harald snatched the banner and thrust it at Halldor. The Icelander stood braced against the wall. His teeth showed th
rough a right cheek laid open and hanging loose. 'Here, take the standard!" cried Harald.
Wild with pain and rage, Halldor snarled back, "Who cares to take a banner before you, as unmanly as you follow it?"
There was no time to dispute further, with scimitars clattering on shields. Harald shoved the staff into Halldor's hand and went forward. His armored men cleared the gateway and spread yelling into the court.
The fight was hard before the castle was taken.
That evening Harald walked through his camp to Halldor's tent. The Icelander sat biting his lips while a Greek surgeon sewed up his cheek. Harald waited, staring into the lamp flame.
"There, now." The surgeon laid down the needle. "The mark will be large, but a beard can cover it somewhat."
Halldor nodded and gulped a stoup of wine. His eyes were glazed.
"I wished to say you did nobly," Harald spoke.
"I may have said too much in the gate," Halldor answered tonelessly, "but you did seem long about coming and many of us died."
"Will you take an extra share of booty in weregild?"
"I thank you, no." Halldor returned to his wine. Harald went out.
The wound left a livid scar that twisted Halldor's mouth and was often painful. He was more withdrawn after that, and while naught was said, Harald felt his friendship was not what it had been.
2
The Varangians spent the mild, rainy winter happily in Messina, which was a large town with a seaport's diversions. Italian and Saracen dwellers continued their lives under the new reign much as they had done before. The East was more forbearing than the West. After so hard a summer's work it was good to know ease, wine, women, and merriment again.
The next year Harald was out warring afresh with subborn emirs, chasing robbers, gathering scot. In that season he first met Nicephorus Skleros.
He was near Agrigento when scouts brought word that a Greek detachment had been trapped by the enemy in a valley close by and was being whittled down. Harald's men hastened over the ridges till he saw the fight. There were not many Greeks left. They battled wearily against overwhelming numbers. Harald hit the Saracens from the rear, almost wholly by surprise, crumpled them up and threw them away.
While the wounded groaned in their anguish and the captives were shuffled off under spears, Harald found the highest ranking survivor of the Byzantines. This was a middle-aged man, tall and erect even in his tiredness. His face was straight-boned and comely in the manner of the ancient Grecian statues, its notable features being a neatly pointed gray beard and lustrous eyes. He bowed deeply. "After God and the saints, kyrios," he said, "we have you to thank for our lives. Pray, what is your name?"
"I am Harald Sigurdharson of the Varangians."
"The famous Araltes himself? I should have known from your height. I am Nicephorus Skleros, aide to the regimental commander, though he is fallen." The Byzantine waved a fine hand, modestly. "My branch of the great Skleros gens is very minor, kyrios. I have been a country dweller who seldom left his Homer and Plutarch for the city. But of course I have heard of you. They say you are a king in your own country."
"Well . . ."
"How you smote the infidel! It was as if Achilles had come back from Elysium." Nicephorus recited some Homeric lines which Harald could not quite follow; but they had a goodly clash to them.
"Best we get things in order," he said. "Few remain of your troops. What do you wish to do?"
Nicephorus sighed and took off his helmet. A light breeze ruffled his curly, grizzled hair. "Frankly, captain, I am at a loss. We can hardly relieve the garrison as we were ordered. I am not a soldier, do you see. I went to serve in this campaign, chiefly as an amanuensis, in order to see the famous places of antiquity, where the Athenian expedition ended and where Archimedes wrought. And to gain some understanding of war, that I might understand the poets and historians." He smiled sadly. "If you would advise me, I shall be doubly grateful."
"Well, we can march together to your destination and then . . . hm . . . your men might well be made part of my own command, if the strategos is willing. I need to replace some losses."
Eagerness kindled in Nicephorus' voice. "May I, too, join you, captain?"
"Eh?" Harald checked a grin. He did not wish to hurt the man's pride. "Have you not had enough of war, kyrios?"
"Of its cruelties, indeed," said Nicephorus. "But ... I would not have it said a Skleros went home before the war's end. Also," he added shyly, "I would fain get to know you and your men better. Your folk are like Achaeans returned—yourself, by every account, a new Odysseus."
"Thank you, kyrios," said Harald. "But now we've work to do."
Sadness tinged the mobile face. "Of course you are right. I fear the life of Hellas has run out in memories, old books and dusty dreams; you practical young folk will inherit the earth. Yet remember, a thousand years hence you will also be buried in books and none but a few dreamers will care what you did."
Harald doubted the wisdom of taking Nicephorus with him, but soon changed his mind. Although the noble was indeed no soldier, he bore hardships uncomplainingly. His learning was useful in the tedious business of records and accounts; his conversation, parched wit and endless curiosity livened many long marches.
"There are stories among us that the Aesir, whom we worshiped as gods till lately, came from the Black Sea lands about the time of Christ," Harald said once in answer to a question. "True it is, one finds an Asgardh there—Asgorod—and the Azov Sea."
"Were they an Alanic tribe, then?" wondered Nicephorus. "Me Hercule, I would I had my books here! Or even my daughter Maria, she is well taught in classical matters. A good girl, kyrios. Lately she has joined Her Sacred Majesty's attendants, a step upward for her. My other children were boys, grown now and scattered over the Empire in governmental service. Only Maria is left to my wife and me. We have taken a house in Constantinople to be near her. You must come visit me when we get back. We shall have some good talks. I will read certain passages of Aristotle to you; I believe you would appreciate his clear cool reasoning. No one thinks in these later days, it's all flatulent mysticism, no Hellenes remain in the world."
Harald decided he would accept the invitation.
That winter again he spent in Messina. More and more he thought about his return home. Not that there was huge haste. Once the news that Knut was dead would have sent him rushing back, to grab for the kingdom and belike fall slain. Today, nearing the ripe age of twenty-five years, he felt more steady. Let his gold hoard grow with his plans, until one day he could not be resisted. He had learned much in the South. If he could make an empire of the North, from Greenland to Finland, and bind his wild folk to one king and one law, there would be no power on earth they need fear and his name would last forever.
3
In the spring of Anno Domini 1040, Georgios Maniakes got word that an army was bound from Africa to wrest Sicily back for the emirs. That was not unexpected, and his own preparations were soon made. The Greeks marched to the coast and halted at Draginas, whither their scouting boats told them the enemy fleet was bound.
Harald was at the final conference. Officers crowded Georgios' pavilion, filling the air with their sweat. Georgios leaned on a table littered with maps, snapping orders at one after another of his men.
His gaunted, unshaven face turned to Stephen, the Emperor's brother-in-law, grand admiral of the fleet. The navy had had an easy time hitherto, and Stephen was pouting at having been dragged from his vintages and larks' tongues in Messina. "Now, despotes," said Georgios, "as I've explained, with God's help we shall drive the infidels back into the sea. But if then they escape in their ships, this work must all be done over. It would be too dangerous to attack them from the water, with the reefs hereabouts. But if you stand guard and meet them as they get clear, still confused, their array unformed . . . you can cut them off and sink every last tubful!"
Stephen wiped his plump wet face with a perfumed scarf. "Easier said than done," he sulked. "The
y could sail around us."
Georgios brough his fist down so the table jumped. "By St. Demetrios and all angels! What's a navy for? You have twice their numbers, you can box them against the land. A sea breeze will push them back toward us, an offshore wind drive them into your arms." He curbed himself, resorting to irony. "Surely, despotes, a commander of your rare gifts can see many ways to which I am blind, for ending this campaign at one stroke."
Stephen said nothing to that. Harald wondered if he paid any heed to Georgios' discourse on tactics.
The next morning the two armies met. The Saracens were a good-sized host, splashing through the shallows and charging ashore with an inhuman screech. No few Christians were daunted. Harald was not. His victorious years had given him a belief that Olaf the Stout watched over him from Heaven and his life would not end until his work was done. He led his Varangians stolidly through their own battle task. Amidst a clanging and belling of metal they rolled back the enemy line. There was a butcher's time, then Georgios' schemes bore fruit. The foe crumpled, broke up into knots and single men, and fled.
TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn Page 9