The Varangian

by Bruce Macbain

  “Where did you learn to play?”

  “My father taught me. He learned it in the East as a young man.”

  “He was a merchant? A soldier?”

  Her lips tightened just a little. “A seeker of knowledge, a physician.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  She ignored this and handed me the dice cup. “A silver penny a game? You can go first.”

  And so we played for a while. I watched her more than I watched the board. She had a space between her front teeth and, while she considered a move, she would touch the tip of her tongue to it. Her eyebrows would draw together in concentration and she would tap a foot nervously.

  I lost steadily, while Andreas explained carefully why every move I made was not the best. Finally, she said, “Sir, if you keep looking in my eyes instead of at the board you will never learn a thing.”

  “In that case, I give up,” I laughed. “This is too hard for my thick head. You’d best take someone else’s silver.”

  “Very well.”

  But there were no other takers this evening. After a moment, I said, “Shall we try somewhere else? I’ll walk with you. It’s a dark night.”

  Without meeting my eyes, she closed the board and stood up. “Not necessary.”

  But I followed her out the door. “Who are you, girl?” I touched her arm and turned her toward me.

  “What do you mean? Let me go.” She tried to pull away, but I held her. “I’m not a girl.” She looked at me with angry eyes.

  “I know the feel of a woman when I touch her. I also know that a boy doesn’t sit with his knees together. What sort of game are you really playing here? I promise to keep your secret. You’re a brave child.”

  “I’m no child. I’m eighteen and can take care of myself.”

  I doubted she was even that old. “Eighteen and not married?”

  “What is that to you? I have no dowry, so that’s an end of it. And if your next question is going to be do I have a lover the answer is no. I haven’t time for such things.”

  “But your parents let you go out and mix with men like this? In my country that wouldn’t be unusual, but here? I thought Greeks all locked their daughters up at night.”

  She shrugged. “My mother wouldn’t have allowed it but she is dead. And as for my father—well, he has much to occupy him at night. And whatever he doesn’t like, he prefers not to see. The fact is we need the money.”

  “Is it only for the money?”

  Now she smiled. “It’s more than that. It’s the battle of wits. It’s getting one over on men.”

  “Not all men like being beaten—like the one who attacked you the other night.”

  “It doesn’t happen often. I’m careful not to win too much.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  She hesitated. “It’s Selene.”

  “Very pretty. Is that some saint?”

  “I was named for the goddess of the Moon.”

  “Do you worship her?”

  She looked at me from under long lashes. “That would be against the law.”

  She wasn’t pretty, really. But there was intelligence in those large, dark eyes. And there was something about her that reminded me of little Ainikki, whom I had loved for so brief a time in Finland. But that child of the forest and this child of the streets would have nothing in common, except their courage, and maybe something more: an aura of magic that clung to both of them. While we talked, we strolled along the quay in the shadow of the sea wall; it was quiet on the water. A quarter-moon hung low over the Galata side.

  “You said your father was a physician? But not a rich one. Surely, you can’t make enough gambling to support the two of you? Do you have another trade?”

  “I was once apprenticed to a silk weaving factory. I spoiled a piece of cloth, the matron beat me. I never went back.”

  “Good for you. And your father?”

  “He takes patients sometimes. But he has little time for that. His life is devoted to the work.”

  “What work is that?”

  Our shoulders had been almost touching but now she pulled away. “I’ve said too much. I don’t know you.”

  “Then I will introduce myself. I am Churillo Igorevich, the envoy of Grand Prince Yaroslav of Kiev.” I swept off my cap and made her a little bow.

  “Rus! My God, you are a fierce, barbaric people.”

  I’d only meant to impress the girl, not terrify her. “Look,” I said quickly, “I’m quite harmless, really. And I’m lonely here. I’ve been in the city two weeks and haven’t yet been invited into a Greek home. I’d like to meet your father. I’ll gladly bring a contribution for dinner.”

  “What? No, I’m sorry, it’s impossible.”

  “But why?”

  But she was already heading away from me down the street. The moon—her goddess—took that moment to disappear behind a rack of cloud plunging us into utter darkness. And I was left angry, baffled, and cursing the Greeks.

  Then things got worse

  Two days passed uneventfully and then Psellus paid me a visit. Not the smiling, talkative young man of our last conversation. He was tightlipped, frowning, and he avoided my eyes. All he would say was that the Logothete demanded my presence. What alarmed me most was that he brought two Khazar archers with him, as though he expected me to make a run for it.

  There were more armed guards in Eustathius’s office and the man himself was no longer the genial elf that I had first met amid his butterfly collection. He was pacing the room, and I noticed for the first time that he had a clubbed foot with a special shoe to cover it. He searched me with cold eyes. “Who the hell are you?” Before I could open my mouth, he went on: “I wondered why Yaroslav would send a new ambassador instead of Oleg Bogdanovich, who has been coming here for years. And someone so young, at that. Foreign intelligence is our specialty here. I know people who are familiar with Yaroslav’s court. We know the names of all his boyars and ‘Churillo Igorevich’ isn’t one of them. It has taken me a few days to confirm with our contacts that you are not who you claim to be. Who are you really and why are you here? What is this charade about?”

  The first thought that flashed through my mind was of Ingigerd and how naïve she was, how little she really understood of how things worked here. To think that we could get away with this farce for more than a few days. By now, of course, I should have been standing over Harald’s cold corpse; but I wasn’t, and now I never would. The one bright spot, if you could call it that, was imagining how Inge was going to wriggle out of this one when her husband was informed of the deceit that had been practiced in his name. Perhaps this time she really had overstepped herself.

  The Logothete’s eyes searched me. “We don’t like being fooled. I’ll ask you one more time before I have my men beat it out of you. Why are you here?”

  For a desperate moment, I ran through one possible lie after another. And then, with a feeling of indescribable relief, I decided to tell the truth. How I had been sent here as Princess Ingigerd’s agent, not to negotiate the marriage of her daughter, but to murder the Varangian Guardsman, Harald Sigurdsson, whom she hated for reasons too complicated to explain. “And I had reasons of my own for killing him,” I added.

  “Harald who? Psellus, fetch down the Varangian muster book, it’s on the high shelf behind you.” Eustathius spent a minute turning the pages of the enormous volume. “Is this him?” He looked up. “Half-brother to the late King Olaf of Norway. Arrived here three years ago. Fine military record, important mission to Jerusalem, promoted to captain of a bandon, good officer by all accounts. The kind of man we like to see in the Guard. This is outrageous. I tell you right now, Churillo, or whatever your name is, you will make no move against this officer, or I will have you executed on the spot. The fact that a barbarian princess hates him for personal reasons is no concern of mine. I’m writing to Yaroslav at once. And I will order the Rus merchants here to cut
ties with you; they’ll be out of our city in a few days anyway, thank God.”

  “And what about me, sir?”

  “What about you? You are entirely dispensable, Churillo Igor—Dammit, man, what is your name anyway?”

  I told him, and tried to explain that I had pretty well given up the idea of killing Harald, but he cut me off. “For someone who is here under false colors, you seem to be very interested in us. Young Psellus has told me about your long conversation after the banquet. I fear he may have said more than he should. Exactly why do you want to know all this—how the government works, who does what? Don’t bother answering, the question is moot now. You no longer have any reason to be here, so I’m afraid your curiosity about our affairs will have to go unsatisfied. You will, of course, move out of the hostel at once. If you want to remain in our city, you do so on your own. You know ships? You might be able to find work around the water front, caulking, sail-mending, something of the sort. Or, I would suggest the army, but we’re not recruiting at the moment.”

  “The Varangians?” I ventured in a murmur.

  “What? Out of the question. They don’t take just anyone.”

  “Office of Barbarians? I speak three languages.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  Well, that was that then. No place to live. My subsidy, which Stavko had been doling out, would stop at once. I owned nothing but the expensive clothes on my back. How would I live? Where would I go? Obviously, not back to Kiev. I had no ship, no crew, no friends. My beautiful fantasy of rising to wealth and power in Golden Miklagard lay shattered in pieces. My long, tortuous journey from the ruins of my Iceland home had ended here in abject failure. Perhaps I should hang myself.

  With tears in my eyes—I’m not ashamed to admit it—I stumbled out the door and made my way across the palace grounds. As I came in sight of the polo field, I heard the bray of trumpets and the tramp of feet. A raven banner fluttered in the wind. The Varangians were on parade. In spite of myself, I stopped for a minute to look.

  “Tangle-Hair, over here!” came a voice I recognized.

  12

  I Become a Spy

  “Gorm!” I called out in reply. Glum’s brother, my one friend among the Varangians, trotted over to me. He was carrying his two-handled axe on his shoulder and his scarlet shield slung on his back.

  “How goes it, friend Odd?”

  “Not so well.”

  “Oh?” He looked genuinely sorry. “Well, this should cheer you up. We’re on parade today, put on a real show for our Roman masters. Stand over here, you’ll see everything.”

  The polo ground, situated in the middle of the palace grounds, was a wide field, bordered by a palisade. Once earlier, I had seen a team of Khazar horse archers playing against another cavalry regiment, thundering up and down on their ponies, swinging long mallets. But today the space was filled with infantry, both Varangians and other palace regiments—the Manglabitai, the Kandidatoi, the Noumeri and Teichistai—all fitted out in their bronze corselets and plumed helmets and uniforms or white, red and blue—marshalled rank by rank, performing their exercises.

  On every side banners flew—one of them, the dragon-headed standard of the Varangians with its long streaming tail. Harald could be seen, and heard, some distance away bawling orders at his bandon as they charged, swung their axes, wheeled, and charged again. His men were the best-looking troops on the field, no question. Senior army officers stood on the reviewing stand along one side, applauding them. It was a sight to stir the heart. How I wished I were one of them, with the haft of an axe in my hand, charging, shouting, feeling the blood pounding in my head. Odin! It had been too long, too long. Suddenly, my cares came rushing back. No more for me the warrior’s life. I remembered with a pang how years before I had watched Harald marshal Yaroslav’s druzhina for our expedition against the Pechenegs. I was his skald then, his second in command. But now, landless, shipless, friendless, who would take me on? I turned to go.

  “Tangle-Hair, stop, damn it.” Harald waved a long arm at me. “Gorm said you were here. We’ll talk, don’t go away.”

  Well, what else did I have to do? I stayed and watched for a half hour more and was rewarded by an interesting sight: Harald in an angry shouting match with another Varangian. This man was old, his white whiskers spread over an enormous belly, and he limped on a crutch. His clothes were very fine and he wore a golden torque around his fat neck. I remembered Stavko had told me that the Commandant of the Guard was one Sveinn Gudleifsson, a gouty old fellow who enjoyed his pampered life in the city and was apt to resent an ambitious young upstart like Harald. It seemed likely that this was him. It wasn’t clear what their quarrel was about, but both of them were red in the face. It took three or four other Varangians to pull them apart. Soon after, the parade disbanded and Sveinn stumped off.

  I made my way over toward Harald, where he stood surrounded by his men. I pulled him aside and, before he could say anything, began the speech I’d been rehearsing for the past few minutes. “You said the other day that you had an idea how I can help you. You’d better tell me now for in another day I will be gone from here. I’ve been exposed and banned from the palace. The only bright spot in the whole mess is the embarrassment this is going to cause Inge. You should appreciate that. Yelisaveta’s yours for the taking. But if you have anything for me, say it now.”

  “Walk with me, Tangle-Hair.” We made our way to the Brazen Gate, the imposing complex of gates and guardhouses that forms the ceremonial entranceway to the Great Palace. “The Fourth Bandon is on guard duty this week,” he said. “We have our quarters here with a private office for the captain, which is me. We’ll take lunch there.”

  He sat facing me over a basket of bread and cheese and a bottle of wine. “I’ve neglected you. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. I thought we had more time.”

  “Time for what?”

  He frowned for a moment in thought and stroked his long moustaches. Every time I saw him he looked less like the overgrown boy—the ‘unnatural weed’—that I remembered from Gardariki. “Let’s get one thing clear, Tangle-Hair. I will need to trust you absolutely. I could ask you swear an oath on some saint’s relic but we both know that would be pointless in your case. No, you must become my skald again, my poet, my advisor, my go-between. No need for you to be a Varangian, this is a personal bond, it’s nothing to do with the regiment. I once gave you an arm ring. D’you remember?”

  How well I did! Seven, almost eight, years ago. We sat in Jarl Rognvald’s hall in Aldeigjuborg. Harald with his mentor, Dag, and all their men. I alone, estranged from my crew. Harald, only sixteen, had fled from Norway and was on his way to Novgorod to enlist under Yaroslav and plot to regain his brother Olaf’s throne. Dag urged me to join them, to help him control this bumptious young prince. And I agreed. We spent the night drinking and swapping lines of poetry and, at the end of it, Harald gave me an arm ring, sliding it from the tip of his sword to the tip of mine in the old viking fashion.

  “What’s become of it?” he asked.

  “I threw it away.”

  He coughed and looked away. “Yes, well, maybe you had reason, let’s not go into that again. But we’ll start fresh. Things will be different this time, you’ll see.”

  “What is it that you need me for so badly? You said something about my speaking Greek for you. They have interpreters in the Office of Barbarians, why don’t you send for one of them?”

  “Because I prefer them not to know my business.”

  “Well, who are you talking to?”

  He shook his head. “First the ring. And, as long as you’re my man, Tangle-Hair,” he spoke slowly, underlining each word, “you have nothing to fear from Halldor or Bolli or anyone else. Do you understand me?” Without waiting for a reply, he went out into the day room and ordered in half-a-dozen of his men, who were lounging there. In their presence we went through the ceremony, with all the high-flown words about honor and good faith and the bond between warlord and skald. And all
I could think of was that other time: the heat of the wine, the warriors banging their sword hilts on the tables, and the rush of hope, promise, and honor between two young men in love with poetry and adventure.

  There was none of that now. Now there was only cold calculation. I was no longer being paid to kill Harald and had, frankly, lost the urge. Too much else was crowding in on my mind. Not that we would ever be friends, but possibly we could work together for our mutual advantage. If not, I could always leave. Harald took a ring from his arm, a heavy silver one with twisting serpents around it, and I put it on. The onlookers murmured their congratulations without much enthusiasm, except for Gorm who gave me a bone-crushing squeeze on my sore shoulder.

  “Have they thrown you out of the ambassadors’ hostel?” Harald asked me when we were alone again. “Stay here, if you like.”

  “Thanks, but maybe we shouldn’t be seen together too much.”

  “You’re right, as usual. But be here when I need you. Here,” he pushed a bag of coins toward me. “If you’re not on Inge’s payroll anymore then you will be on mine. Mind you, I’m not as rich as she is—not yet. Find yourself someplace to live. I’m told there are nice properties out by the ring wall in the Lycos valley. Open country—have you been out there?—very pretty. Have a bit of a garden, buy a horse. We’re country boys, you and I, Odd, not like these citified Greeks.”

  I emptied the coins into my purse. “Thanks, I’ll have a look round. When will you need me?”

  “Tomorrow night if I can arrange things.”

  “And can I ask now who I’m translating for?”

  “All in good time, my friend.” He grinned and would say no more.

  The Orphanage of Saint Paul, which stood on the acropolis north of the palace, consisted of several old brick buildings and a church, arranged around a courtyard and surrounded by a fence. The courtyard was littered with untidy piles of lumber and stone; there was an untended garden where a little grass struggled to survive. Inside, it stank of cabbage and despair. It was past sundown when Harald and I arrived, both of us wearing dark cloaks and hoods. I felt faintly ridiculous; we’d probably attract more attention than otherwise costumed like this, but it appealed to Harald. We were met at the entrance by a lank-haired, pinch-faced young man with a patch over one eye and a missing front tooth. He said his name was Loucas and informed us that he was the Senior Orphan.