Poul Anderson

by The Golden Horn; The Road of the Sea Horse; The Sign of the Raven (epub)

  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 through 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 He was more withdrawn after that, and while naught was said, Harald felt his friendship was not what it had been.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. "No
w, 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. "They could sail around us."

  Georgios brought 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.

  They had brave rear guards, who died in their red footprints but held off the Imperialists long enough for the rest, still a large army, to board their ships and put to sea.

  Harald stood on a high ridge, looking over the waters. Oars threshed, sails rattled loose, the galleys milled about. Beyond the reefs, the Byzantine fleet waited. But Harald frowned. "Our ships are not well ordered," he said.

  Ulf nodded. "That's what comes of putting a fat wine bibber in command. Let's hope the harm he does is not too great."

  They watched, and as day declined they saw the enemy break past with small trouble, assume formation, and slip over the horizon. The Byzantine dromonds wallowed in pursuit for a while, but were outdistanced and must crawl back.

  "Let's return to camp," said Harald bleakly. "I'm fain to see what Gyrgi does about this."

  Again officers crowded the pavilion. They shifted on their feet, unspeaking, numbed by their losses. Georgios entered, a javelin in one hand. Lamplight shimmered off the mail shirt and helmet he still wore. Not often had Harald seen a mouth turned down so bitterly. He seated himself behind his table and drummed with his fingers. That was the only noise.

  After a very long while, Stephen entered. The admiral had delayed to bathe and change into silken raiment. He paused a moment under their eyes, then took a chair before the Archestrategos. Georgios said never a word.

  "Well ..." Stephen cleared his throat.

  "Be silent, caulker!" Georgios spat. "Men died today to win what you lost again."

  Stephen flushed. "It was God's will," he mumbled.

  "God's will my arse! It was your cowardice and incompetence, as well you know. Now we must await a fresh invasion."

  Stephen rose, trembling. "That's enough!" he shrieked. "I'll thank you to remember, you, I am His Sacred Majesty's kinsman, and you can address me with respect. If I hear any more of your insolence ..."

  Georgios rasped in his throat, leaped to his feet, and brought the javelin down. Its butt cracked against Stephen's head. The admiral staggered.

  A moan went among the packed nobles. Georgios dropped his weapon, recalling whom he had struck. Pride kept him stiff and glaring.

  Stephen wobbled about, mopping the blood from his scalp with the scented scarf. "Rebellion," he whispered. "So you rebel against God's anointed, Maniakes. They'll hear of this at court."

  He swept out into darkness. Georgios stood a while longer before he said, "Dismissed."

  One by one they left him. Harald wanted very much to speak to him, but he could think of no words.

  The army returned to Messina, marching as if it had lost the battle. Georgios shut himself up with his work, Stephen in his house. Time would be needed for the dispatch ships to get to Constantinople and back. Meanwhile life went on, after a fashion.

  "What will come of this?" Harald asked Nicephorus.

  The older man spread his hands. "What think you? Maniakes will be imprisoned, perhaps executed."

  "But he was in the right!"

  "Most certainly. The fact remains, however, that he struck the Emperor's kinsman. Even had John no care for his own family, this could not be suffered. Our Emperors never forget how insecurely they hold the throne, how many revolts have been raised among the great nobles."

  "Gyrgi should rebel. By Gabriel's pinfeathers, I'd join him!"

  "Maniakes sets the Empire above himself, Araltes."

  So long did the waiting become that anger was spent and men accepted drearily what was foredoomed. Georgios was deposed, to be taken back under arrest. It was the further order that brought Harald to his feet with a curse. Stephen was now commander of the Sicilian forces.

  But, God be thanked, the Varangians were summoned home. This island was now believed firmly held, while fresh troubles were arising everywhere else in the Empire. The Northmen embarked gleefully, not just because they longed for the fleshpots of Constantinople but because they would not have to serve under Stephen the Caulker. Nicephorus Skleros returned with them, vowing he would hereafter stay among his books and have no more to do with a corrupted age.

  Georgios Maniakes was fortunate: he was jailed but not mutilated. Otherwise the news that year was altogether evil. Stephen's dominion fell swiftly apart; fresh hosts from Africa ate up the land again, until only Messina remained of all the Sicilian conquests.

  Serbia rose in revolt against the taxes John had imposed, and won an independence the Empire dared not contest. For the great Bulgarian provinces seethed with the same spirit; tax collectors and soldiers were murdered; the cities were full of plots and the hills full of armed men.

  Harald paid scant heed. He had suddenly gotten something else to think about.

  Chapter VII:

  How Harald Was Betrothed

  1

  Upon the Norse prince, when the Varangians came back, the Emperor bestowed the high title of Manglabites. Thereafter Michael removed himself to the shrine of St. Demetrios in Thessalonica for ever more frantic prayers; he was becoming dropsical. Zoe remained in Constantinople. She had begun finally to show her age, turning fat and gray and religious.

  Harald found himself with little to do but manage palace guards. He was more pleased than he would have admitted when an invitation came to visit Nicephorus Skleros. He dressed with care, though in Western rather than Eastern style: white linen shirt, gold-embroidered coat, scarlet hose, blue cloak lined with sable, rings on his fingers; a Persian slave accompanied him, bearing his gift of an antique calyx that he had brought from Syracuse. Their horses clopped through long sunset light, into the Blachernae quarter where Nicephorus dwelt.

  The nobleman's house was small, a porticoed building amidst a walled garden. The hillcrest on which it sat commanded a view of the city's endless flat roofs, gleaming domes and mask-raked vapors aglow in the Golden Horn. Nicephorus received Harald in an airy, simply furnished atrium; his plain white cope suggested a toga. ""Welcome, Araltes!" He pressed the Norseman's big hand. "It was good of you to come. The first of many such occasions, I trust."

  They exchanged gifts. Nicephorus offered a costly dagger which Harald refrained from saying looked like poor steel. "Another time I should like you to meet some of my friends," the Byzantine said. "I have not many, but some few are worth knowing, men who talk honestly, though ..." He paused shyly. "I spoke so much of you to my wife and daughter that they wished to make your acquaintance themselves, which they could scarcely do when decorum binds them in co
mpany. I thought we would dine as one family tonight."

  Thor help me, Harald groaned to himself. The lowborn women of the city he liked, even those he got no chance to tumble; they were often cocky and quick-witted. The veiled and secluded noble ladies he had met were an empty lot, even those he got into bed. He began to think of excuses for leaving early.

  "I would be most happy to meet them," he said.

  Nicephorus nodded to a servant, who bowed and slipped out. Meanwhile he poured wine with his own hand and turned to admiring the calyx. "See, is this not lovely? No such work could be done today. See how she stands there. Aphrodite risen new-born from the sea, wringing out her long tresses while the world sings about her. . . . Oh, good evening, my dears. My wife Dorothea, my daughter Maria. The right noble Manglabites Araltes, captain of the Varangian Guard and heir to the throne of Hyperborea."

  The older woman was quiet, good-looking in a faded way. It was on the younger one that Harald's gaze fell, and stayed.

  She was tall, youthfully slender in her long silken gown, graceful on her feet. Her head was proudly carried, the blue-black hair piled in classic mode, the unveiled face so clean of line that it seemed cold until one noticed her smile. Beneath arched brows her eyes were big and dark, encountering Harald's steadily. He had rarely seen such beauty as lay in those faintly tipped eyes.

  "This is a great honor, despotes." Her voice was low-pitched. "And how can we ever thank you for saving our father's life?"

  "A ... a lucky chance," mumbled Harald. "Naught more. He, um, he would belike only have been held for ransom anyway."

  "That would have been nigh as bad," Nicephorus said. "We are not rich." He waved them toward chairs. "Be seated, I pray you. I've promised Maria you would explain what happened at Draginas. To me the battle was sheer chaos."

  Harald, who had taken a deep draught of wine, began to feel it. "Gyrgi, Georgios Maniakes, alone understands fully what went on," he said. Striving to curb the return of anger: "He and I had our quarrels, but he remains among the best men I have met down here; next to Olaf the Stout and Jaroslav the Wise, the best man I ever served."