“Lord,” Alasdair whispered. “How much longer will he keep us waiting?”
Yngvar rolled his eyes. They both stood with their arms behind their backs along the edge of the heavy table. They had been relieved of all weapons, as was customary. A guard leaned in the opened doorway, his short sword drooping from his side and his head lowered as if about to doze off.
“You asked me the same thing earlier this morning. I must give you the same answer. How would I know?”
Alasdair tucked his head down. His boyish face was free of any beard. The Byzantines had excellent blades for shaving right down to the skin. Though Yngvar knew of men who had died from cuts they took while shaving. It was a risk he felt completely unnecessary.
“You seem very relaxed,” Alasdair said. “You don’t wonder what the commander is doing with the others?”
“I could wonder now, or find out later. I’m certain he is not torturing them. He just wants to match our stories. It was a hard thing to be called out for raiding this fortress. That wound is still fresh and dead friends are not so swiftly forgotten by the survivors. It could go badly for us.”
“Valgerd will cover any answer that would endanger us,” Alasdair said.
Yngvar smiled. Valgerd was a Norse-Frankish slave owned by Commander Staurakius. She was a beautiful woman perfectly suited for Alasdair, and the two spent every moment together when not busy elsewhere.
“Thorfast won’t give an answer that will endanger anyone,” Yngvar said. “But I’m not sure about the one called Nordbert. Says he leads the crew and he follows Jarl Bjorn.”
He laughed. It was easier to imagine a glacier in a pond than to think of Bjorn leading anyone but himself. Yet it seemed true enough that Nordbert deferred to him.
They fell into silence. Yngvar enjoyed the sweet scents of firewood that permeated the room. He still felt warm even though the stone walls were not as hot as they had been in summer. A single black fly flickered around the map on the table. It landed on a group of squares that represented Pozzallo.
At last the soldier at the door snapped upright with a stamp of his booted foot. Yngvar and Alasdair both straightened their backs and looked ahead.
Commander Staurakius murmured with someone outside the doors. The exchange turned to short, clipped commands that Yngvar could not understand. But he got the final one clearly.
“That will be all. You are dismissed.”
Heavy footsteps clomped across the floorboards, then down the stairs outside the command room. Staurakius entered with a heavy sigh.
“Close the door,” he said to the guard. “And wait outside.”
Both the commander and Valgerd entered. She seemed like a waif beside her master’s height and dressed in poor cloth. Stains and ripped seams marred her appearance, but she glowed with youthful health and her golden hair tied in a lustrous braid. She was short enough to make Alasdair seem tall.
“Relax,” Staurakius said as he approached the table. He leaned against it and studied the map. The fly that had rested on Pozzallo circled up into the air.
“I trust you have satisfied the accusation against us, Commander?”
Yngvar had spoken out of turn. He knew it, but he bridled at the artificial restrictions of military rank. In his mind a man, be he a jarl or a goat herd, was accorded respect due to his deeds and not some symbol sewn on his clothes.
The commander tolerated this from him, at least when others were not present. Yngvar was circumspect enough to not needle his lord before his men. That would be not only undeserved but also foolish.
“I cannot be certain I am satisfied,” he said, then sighed. “The story told by your men is too impossible to believe.”
“I do not know their story since you’ve separated us. But I can be sure of what they told you of our coming here in the first place.”
“So, tell me once more. Let’s see if this tale remains the same in retelling.”
Yngvar smiled, then clasped his hands behind his back. This was a stance he learned from watching the Byzantine commanders. It seemed to make men more powerful when they spoke.
“We had heard of great wealth in a place called Langbardaland. We sailed south full of mistaken ideas. We expected palaces overflowing with gold and silver. We believed the men who guarded them would be weak, for they endured no ice or snow or rocky land that would yield no crop. But we found the descendants of the old people who were neither rich nor weak. We came unwittingly to Sicily, first to the Arabs and Prince Kalim. But rather than accept our swords for hire they lulled us with women and drink. We were taken captive and sold as slaves. But our slaver’s ship went to the sea bottom. Alasdair and I believed we were the only two to survive. You know the rest. And now that you’ve spoken to my friends, you know more than me.”
Staurakius listened intently. Valgerd, who lingered behind him, nodded approvingly. Thorfast had told the same story. Then suddenly, the commander fixed an eye on him.
“What was the name of the man who betrayed you?”
“Saleet,” Yngvar said without hesitation.
Staurakius nodded. “And how were you specifically betrayed?”
Yngvar’s pulse sped. Until now Yngvar guessed Thorfast would have told the truth and simply omit mention of their attack on Pozzallo. His first instinct was to continue to tell the truth. Yet this might hint at the true story. Why would Prince Kalim have his holy place desecrated to justify taking Norsemen as slaves? That would be unnecessary. Would Thorfast have seen the same problem with this story, and how would he adjust for it?
Staurakius raised his brow. Even slight hesitation would tell on him.
“Saleet organized a welcome feast for us. And he poisoned our wine so that we fell asleep and awakened in chains. We were naive fools and easily deceived.”
He glanced at Valgerd, who had held her breath. But she let it out slowly and gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Your friend was not sure who drugged you, but it is much like Prince Kalim to behave so underhandedly. Poison and assassinations are his trademarks. How else would such a fool rise to his position, even if he is the emir’s son?”
“Of course,” Yngvar said, feeling his pulse ease with his breathing.
“Your stories match well enough, but there is one matter that confuses me, and you must explain.”
Yngvar glanced to Alasdair, who stood attentively with a wide smile. He likely only half understood the exchange.
Staurakius leaned farther across the table. His forehead wrinkled with both brows raised.
“Your arrival in Licata coincides with a Norse attack on this fortress. And two men infiltrated our tower and did massive damage before escaping over the walls. Two men, one tall and strong and the other short and fast. And a Norse ship set fire to the naval ships in the bay. So why would Prince Kalim hire Norsemen to attack us while enslaving you on what must have been very nearly the same day? It makes no sense to me.”
“Nor does it to me, lord.” Yngvar kept his voice steady. He had nothing to hold onto now but the bold lie. “I cannot say what the prince thinks. It is my vow that the prince never thinks again, and that I drink ale from a mug made of his emptied skull.”
Staurakius smiled broader. “Even more interesting, the Norsemen were never seen again. This too is in step with the timing of your enslavement.”
Yngvar did not flinch. He was grateful Alasdair did not understand enough to betray them with a nervous expression.
“Commander, are you accusing me of lying? Please be plain. I cannot play these word games with you, unless you wish to speak in Norse.”
Staurakius leaned back and waved his hand.
“I will be plain with you. I don’t care if you are lying to me. Whoever they were, those Norsemen that attacked us were mercenaries. That is plain enough. The only wrong here is that I did not get a chance to offer a better purse than Prince Kalim. In truth, I don’t know that I could’ve matched his treasury. If it was you, you’ve learned not to deal with the pri
nce. If it was not you, then I have suffered nothing. But there are those convinced it was you. I don’t know how they can tell one Norse ship from another, especially since none of them were aboard our ships. Those sailors have all pulled back and we now have One-Eye and his three ships, one which seems to be constantly leaking.”
Yngvar stood silently. He watched the commander as he rubbed his face. Valgerd stood behind him. She watched Alasdair.
“You saved my life,” Staurakius said, blinking after rubbing his eyes. “You stood with me when the rest of my force ran. I value not only your loyalty but also your way of thinking. You see the battlefield differently from all of us. We need that now if we’re to survive. Let me be even plainer with you, though I guess you must understand our situation.”
“Commander, I am a simple warrior. You do me too much credit.”
“You constantly underplay yourself,” Staurakius said, shaking his head. “I don’t believe you are simple in any way. You are like a captured wolf that has learned to play the part of a loyal hound. You will soon show your fangs and make your escape. These new arrivals will help you do it. I know I cannot stop you, not unless I wish to pit my men against yours.”
Yngvar squared his shoulders. “I have made friends among your soldiers. I’ve no heart for any violence against them.”
“Of course, you have fought beside them. Even a single battle can forge a bond to last a lifetime. Facing death together does that to men.”
“It certainly does.” Yngvar’s thoughts scanned across countless times he and his Wolves faced death. All the blood they shed together, the suffering, the celebration, the fear, and the hope. All of it had created a bond stronger than iron.
“Nevertheless, you are not a soldier and you shall never be one. it is not in your blood to obey. Every Norseman is a king, it seems. I do not know what your people do in the far north, but it must be a chaotic place full of constant battles for rulership.”
“It is not as bad as that,” Yngvar said. “The people are hard, but they are kind and generous with the little they own. They are not like the people of this land, where the heat has burned away their sincerity.”
Staurakius raised his hand for peace. “Every man loves his homeland. Let us not debate it. And as I love mine, you know I must defend it from the Arabs. This fortress must hold against them until we win back the land of our ancestors.”
“Commander, do you believe this is possible?”
“No,” Staurakius said flatly. He gestured to the map spread on the table. He stroked down a line of stones and off the edge of the map.
“Here is a line of fortresses just like mine. Not shown here, but far to the north, is our last great fortress in Messina. This long line of fortresses is anchored here at Pozzallo, where we once thought to keep the Arabs from sweeping into Messina from the south. But time and circumstance have reduced Pozzallo and Licata to a meaningless squabble between old enemies. The Arabs are committed to owning all of this island. It has value in just its command of sea lanes alone.”
Staurakius tapped his finger on the map where Pozzallo was marked. He let it linger as he thought, then continued.
“The emir brings his main army against this line. All along its northern stretch as it closes to Messina, the emir besieges the fortresses that defend the border. He needn’t concern himself with us. We are too far south. He breaks this line and it falls like a chain that bars a doorway. He simply marches through the gap.”
His fingers walked across the map through his imagined breach.
“The emir does not move against us. For we are defeated here the moment the chain is broken. My superiors know this, too. There are no more soldiers coming to replenish my ranks. The navy will not send more ships to my bay. They are needed to keep the Arabs from the mainland. And without those ships, supplies will dry up. Traders will not risk approaching us. Weapons that break and straps that snap will not be replaced. Soon we will have nothing to repair them either. Our only hope is that our forces prevail in the north. That Messina stands and we keep possession of the east coast. Else we will be chased back across the straits and we in Pozzallo will all die.”
“It seems desperate,” Yngvar said. Valgerd, who understood the entire exchange, looked mournfully at the ground. Alasdair shifted, looking to Yngvar for an explanation. But the commander was not finished.
“Desperate but not completely lost.” He tapped the map where the ocean showed. “The emperor in faraway Byzantium is sending a naval force to end this standoff. I am not supposed to know, but I have sources I trust. They will reinforce Messina and the emir will certainly send his own ships in reply. If we are victorious, we will have a real chance at claiming more of Sicily. Perhaps reclaiming all of it. At the least, we in Pozzallo will be saved. We might even have that chance you so dream of. To strike at Prince Kalim’s heart in Licata. So we must stand a while longer.”
“That is more than I could have guessed on my own,” Yngvar said. “But the desperation of our position is known to everyone. The men have grumbled that an expected supply ship did not arrive.”
“The men need to take heart in something,” the commander said.
“The men need to hear the truth from you,” Yngvar said. “If they knew help was coming—”
“If they knew, then Prince Kalim would know, and then the emir would know. I have told you of this news for a single purpose. I want you to remain in Pozzallo once your ship is repaired. Do not leave. Thirty Norsemen and their swords are welcomed here. And Prince Kalim would fear to act against such a foe. Not unless he can drug them into sleep. We need to hold the walls until the battle at Messina.”
Yngvar stepped back from the table. He looked to Alasdair and then to Valgerd.
“He wants us to remain, Lord?”
“Commander,” Yngvar said, nodding to Alasdair’s question. “I have sworn to see Prince Kalim dead. I cannot achieve this hiding behind these walls.”
The commander nodded, staring at the map in silence.
Yet Yngvar knew he could not achieve his goal sailing with only thirty men. Last winter he would have believed a single ship could have sailed into Licata and ransacked the city. Now his naive assumptions lay at the bottom of the Midgard Sea along with a slave ship he had nearly died within. Both Arabs and Byzantines were strong warriors. If Prince Kalim hid behind his palace walls, Yngvar could never battle through to him and live. He would need an army.
“You are asking my men to serve as mercenaries, though no pay is offered.”
Staurakius continued to stare at the map. Valgerd shook her head side to side behind him. Then Yngvar’s eyes widened.
“You’ve disarmed them? They surrendered their weapons?”
“I had to,” Staurakius said, “before they understood my true situation. But I assure you, they are being treated with respect. If you would swear on their behalf to serve me, then I would return their weapons and welcome them into my fortress. For no matter how much I doubt your story, I know you to be a man of honor. I have served long in this army, and I’ve learned to tell a man I can trust from one I cannot. Or I would not have survived to my current rank.”
Yngvar smiled, thinking of Staurakius’s trusted soldiers and commanders who left him to battle the Arabs alone.
“My word is more precious than gold,” Yngvar said. This too grew his smile, for he had a knack for escaping oaths he had sworn to men he owed more to than the commander. Yet were the gods not punishing him for this? His smile weakened.
“Your ship needs repairs. I cannot pay much. But if you would agree simply to show yourselves on the wall, I would be happy enough. For this, your men would risk little, and as a form of repayment I would offer you my dry dock behind these walls. One-Eye’s men could repair your ship at no cost to you. And all the while you simply need to fill my ranks and eat from my meager ladder. Just long enough for the decision at Messina.”
Yngvar stroked his short beard, considering the offer. Alasdair was no help, for
he shrugged when Yngvar looked to him. Valgerd, while a Norse woman, was a slave and her opinion had no merit in any case. Yet she seemed encouraging, making her clear, blue eyes wide and soulful.
“And if Messina goes badly?”
Staurakius’s shoulders fell. He stared at the map.
“Then take your ship and give up your dreams of revenge against Prince Kalim. Sail far and sail fast, for you will be hunted as an enemy of the emir. He will own Sicily and the seas around it. There will be no peace here for you.”
“And you will die here?”
Staurakius nodded. “I was ordered to remain in place until ordered otherwise. If Messina falls, no other order will reach me.”
Yngvar drew a deep breath.
“My men will fill your ranks. They will defend themselves if this fortress is attacked. But they will not march out to war on your behalf, at least not for the pay you have offered. Once the ship is repaired, if Messina does not happen before winter then we will be free to leave. In any case, you do not want bored and idle Norsemen among your men. There will soon be trouble.”
Commander Staurakius smiled. “Do you swear this by your gods and honor?”
“I do swear it,” Yngvar said.
He did not smile. For he meant it. He had crossed his word too often for even a favored champion of the gods to overlook. To cross it once more would invite a harder rebuke than the gods had already handed him.
Valgerd nearly fell over from her excitement. Alasdair smiled, probably because his lover did. Staurakius slapped his palm to the table.
“That is all I need to hear. I will send word to welcome your men, return their weapons, and bring their ship in for repairs.”
He and Yngvar concluded other minor points of the arrangement, such as where to house the men and where they should eat. But it seemed the commander truly only wanted stern Norse faces to glare from his wall so that Prince Kalim’s scouts saw Pozzallo as something too large to swallow safely.
He left them with a few instructions for the day, but turned at the door.
“You must greet your men properly. Tonight, we will feast with them. Is that not the custom among your folk?”
The Red Oath Page 3
