The Varangian

by Bruce Macbain

  “I’m an orphan myself,” I said, trying to banter with him.

  He didn’t smile. Holding up a lantern, he led us into the heart of this unhappy place. If I was expecting to see those well-scrubbed children in their chorister frocks, I was disappointed. We passed boys and girls on their knees with pails and brushes, dormitory rooms without doors in which the bedding was gray and tattered, and walked through one large room where boys sat on the floor amid coils of old rope, picking oakum out of the strands with tarry fingers and another where girls sat at looms peering at their work by the feeble light of a few smoky candles. Nowhere did we hear conversation, much less singing. Loucas spoke only once, when we passed a series of cells with bars on the doors. “Some of the children need correction,” he said.

  He brought us finally to the office of the Guardian of Orphans. There were two men inside, seated at a bare table. One was John, dressed as always in his monk’s habit; the other, I learned, was his brother-in-law Stephen. I had heard a little about Stephen—none of it encouraging. The man had started out a caulker in the shipyards, had been lucky enough to marry into John’s family, and now rejoiced in the title of Admiral of the Fleet, although the general opinion was that he was incapable of commanding a fleet of walnut shells in a bathtub. But it was he who had led the squadron that carried masons and architects to Jerusalem the previous year and got to know Harald, who was escorting them. Stephen was no genius but he had a sharp eye for ambition and greed—qualities worth cultivating—and mentioned Harald to John.

  Stephen stood when we entered. John did not. He motioned us to chairs, sent Loucas out of the room and told Stephen, as if he were just some servant, to pour wine for us. I waved my glass away, thinking that I might need a clear head for whatever tonight’s business was. I was not wrong. John leaned forward on his elbows and squinted at me. His eyes were hard as sling bullets, under heavy lids the color of bruises.

  “Where have I seen you before?”

  “At the banquet,” I answered. “I enjoyed the singing. I hope the Emperor has recovered.”

  He slapped the table so hard we all jumped. He glared at Harald. “This is who you bring me?” He said this in Greek, of course, and it was clear right from the start that Harald was lost. “My skald,” he began, “my—” he searched for the word—“my poietes, poet.”

  “Spy, you mean,” John snarled. “The so-called ambassador from Gardariki. And the first day he’s here he has a private meeting with Zoe. Why?” He turned his gaze on me. “You speak Greek, man? You’d better start talking.”

  Harald stared hard at me. He wasn’t getting much of this but he knew there was a problem. To him, in rapid Norse, I explained that she had chatted with me about nothing, given me a bottle of perfume, and that was the end of it. To John I said the same and added that as an ambassador I was supposed to talk to Roman officials, and I assumed that the Empress of Rome could speak with whomever she liked.

  “You assumed wrong,” John shot back. “You will have gathered that the Empress is quite distracted in her wits—strange fancies, religious enthusiasms, this perfume business…” He attempted a smile of sympathy, which on him was merely grotesque. “You will not see her again.”

  “I haven’t been invited, sir.”

  “And as for you being an ambassador, that appears to be no longer the case, Churillo, or whatever you call yourself.”

  “Odd Thorvaldsson. You know a lot about me.”

  “I know everything about you. That is my job. You came here to arrange a marriage for the Rus princess, the one Harald here fancies, which is why I have vetoed it.” Turning to Harald, he said, “You don’t consider this fellow an enemy?” I translated this. Harald replied that he held my life in his hands and I damn well knew it. I smiled at John and said, “We’ve been dear friends for years.”

  John returned his gaze to me. “The first moment I have reason to suspect your loyalty, don’t doubt that I will protect myself. I know what you barbarians think of men like me. I warn you, in my case you would be quite wrong. I am not a soft man at all.”

  “I think it’s time you explained to me what this is all about.” I tried my best to look imposing.

  “All right, let’s see if you can follow this. Our young Emperor, my dear brother, Christ help him, is sicker than anyone realizes. It is vital that another member of my family occupies the throne when he dies. The only possible choice is my nephew, Stephen and Maria’s son, who is little more than a child—”

  “But a good lad,” Stephen interrupted. “A bit wild, but he’ll outgrow it.” Stephen spoke in the same rough, uncultured accent that I did. Not the elegant Greek John used.

  Ignoring his brother-in-law, the Guardian of Orphans continued. “We have already persuaded Zoe to adopt the boy as her son. But that isn’t good enough. Her supporters—the Logothete among others—will try to marry her off to someone—someone who isn’t one of us. That cannot be allowed to happen. What we need, what I need, is control of the Varangians. With their support I can do whatever I want. Unfortunately, the present Commandant is not a friend of ours. He goes back to Basil’s day, he’s loyal to the Macedonian dynasty, to Zoe, and I can’t remove him. Not yet, anyway.”

  “That surprises me. You are the Emperor’s brother.”

  He smiled sourly at me. “Sveinn Gudleifsson has survived at this court for thirty years. He may be old and crippled with gout but he’s shrewd, tough, rich, and well-connected. He married into one of our leading families and so has his daughter. A lot of people owe him favors. We can’t move against him openly without creating an uproar and the Emperor wants no part of that.”

  I translated this for Harald.

  “The gouty old fool hates me,” Harald sneered. “Picked a quarrel with me on parade today.”

  “That is because I went around him to get you appointed to the Guard,” John replied. “Try deferring to him, he’ll come around. I know diplomacy is not your strong point, Harald. Maybe you should take pointers from the ‘ambassador’ here.”

  While I translated this—selectively—I thought back to Dag Ringsson. He was a diplomat who had smoothed the way for young Harald at Yaroslav’ court until Harald got tired of taking his advice and threw him over. How long, I wondered, would I last in the same role?

  “Now,” John resumed, “Harald here is a popular man, he is on his way up, the men will follow him. When the moment comes, he will assume command of the Guard—we will take care of Sveinn—and with their help we will put Zoe out of her misery once and for all and my nephew will become Emperor Michael the Fifth. This much has been worked out between Harald Sigurdsson and me, but slowly, laboriously. I doubt he understands half what we say to him. When the time comes, communication must be swift, clear, and secure. There must be no misunderstandings, no mixed signals. For obvious reasons we can’t use interpreters from the Office of Barbarians. That is where you come in, my friend.”

  While I translated, Harald was looking morose and tugging at his long moustaches. “Tell the ballsless wonder that he needs to get me another promotion. It isn’t just Sveinn. There are too many in the Guard who outrank me.”

  I put this into diplomatic Greek, but I suspect that John understood more of it than he let on.

  “Tell the big, shaggy beast,” he replied smoothly, “that it is too soon for that.” John was taking a chance; what if I translated his words exactly? But he seemed to know that I wouldn’t. I was beginning to feel like the only child in a bad marriage. It was obvious they disliked each other. And I didn’t like either of them. I could feel the tension rising. The strain of translating—and not quite translating—was giving me a headache. “What we need,” John mused, “is a nice war, a chance for Harald to shine and for Sveinn to be politely put out to pasture.”

  This was encouraging. What Norseman doesn’t long for a war? I asked if there was one in the offing.

  “Perhaps sooner than anyone thinks,” he answered.

  The conversation went on a while lo
nger until Harald stood up suddenly. “Enough for one night. When will we meet again?”

  “Oh, not for some time,” John replied. “Eustathius has his spies, too. We can’t be careless.”

  Out in the street again, Harald turned to me. “So you saw Zoe? You didn’t tell me that. She invited me to her stink-works too when I first came here. She asked me for a lock of my golden hair. I told her I’d give it in exchange for a lock of her hair—the hair between her legs. Hah! Never heard a word from her after that. Old meat doesn’t appeal to me. Of course, Tangle-Hair, you feel differently about old meat, don’t you?” He let out a harsh laugh. I had no love for Zoe, who I hardly knew, nor for Ingigerd, whom I knew too well. Nevertheless, his sneer angered me. “Like old times again, eh, me and you, eh? But this time we really are on the same side, Tangle-Hair, aren’t we?”

  At that moment I wanted to hit him. Instead, I asked him if he was afraid of John. The idea seemed to astonish him. “Afraid of that capon!” he laughed out loud. “Of course not. Why should I fear him?”

  Possibly because you lack imagination, was what I wanted to say, but didn’t.

  I smiled instead and told him goodnight.

  I had not succeeded that day in finding a country house to rent. After traipsing all over the fields and orchards that lay within the outer walls, I ended up back in the city, in a little street a few blocks off the Triumphal Way that was given over to ironmongers and cheap clothing stores. I moved my few belongings out of the hostel and packed Piotr off to Stavko, to his great delight. I put down five nomismata for two clean rooms on the third floor of a tenement and bought a strong lock for my door. I felt better being in the heart of things anyway than stuck out in the country. What a city boy I’d become!

  Now, as I made my way along the darkened streets from the orphanage, lit only by a fitful moon, I pondered what an evil situation I was in. These men would abandon me the minute I ceased being useful to them. I already knew too many of their secrets to be safe. I’d trusted Harald once; I wouldn’t make that mistake again. And what did all their scheming come to? To persecute a defenseless, possibly mad, old woman and put some young incompetent on the throne of a great empire. Should I care? To my surprise I found that I did. Still, I might have gone along with them for a time, except for what happened next. I heard footsteps behind me. I pulled my knife from my boot and quickened my pace. The footsteps stayed with me, turning the corner when I turned. I looked over my shoulder and saw a dark figure flatten itself against the wall of a building. I walked on, turned another corner, stepped into an alley, and waited. I heard the footsteps stop, then come on again. As my pursuer passed me, I stepped out, took him by the throat with one hand and pressed the point of my knife under his rib.

  “Don’t, sir!” I recognized the face with its eye patch. Loucas, the orphan.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Orders. Guardian wants to know where you live.” He twisted in my grip.

  “Why?”

  But he clamped his mouth shut.

  “As one orphan to another, Loucas, if I ever catch you sneaking up behind me again, I’ll kill you.” I threw him to the ground and kicked him in the face. He let out a yelp, scrambled up and ran off into the night.

  I think until that moment I hadn’t quite decided whose side I was on. I doubled back, aiming toward the great arches of the aqueduct that loomed out of the dark, and followed it to the little street that I remembered. Once or twice along the way, I faltered and nearly changed my mind. This was a very dangerous game I was about to play—I needed no one to tell me that. But the more I thought about John and Harald the angrier I got. And, I suppose, I’ve never been one to weigh my choices prudently. I found the house I was seeking and pounded on the nail-studded door until someone stirred within. A small peep hole opened, a candle flame lit up an eye that peered at me.

  “It’s me. Let me in.”

  The door creaked open and there stood Psellus in his nightshirt and cap. He had a heavy candlestick in his fist. Behind him, I glimpsed two frightened women, clutching each other.

  “Churil—” he started. “Odd!”

  “We have to talk.”

  13

  Friendship and a Warning

  He pulled me inside and locked the door. “It’s all right, mother,” he told the older woman, “go back to your room. You too, Phyllida.”

  I caught a glimpse of the mother as she and her daughter turned and fled up the stairs: a gaunt face with big, staring eyes; a black snood wrapped around her head and chin and a tattered robe cinched with a rope.

  “Forgive me, Psellus, but—”

  “What do you want here?”

  And so I told him all that had passed between Harald, John, and me. Constantine Psellus was an excitable young man at the best of times. Now he flung himself around the room, rubbing his stubbly head with both hands and exclaiming “Dear God!” and “Incredible!” and “The Logothete must be told at once!” Finally he calmed down enough to ask me what I planned to do. I hardly knew myself, but told him that I very much wanted to talk to Eustathius and to be useful to them if I could.

  “Useful? Why? What are we to you?” He looked at me with narrow eyes.

  Why indeed? Because Harald and John were odious? Because I felt sorry for Zoe? Because I still, somehow, imagined a life for myself here—a life, maybe, with Selene, if I ever found her again? I don’t think I made much sense. Finally, Psellus said, “You’ll sleep here tonight and stay indoors tomorrow. God knows who may be lurking out there, watching for you. I will speak to the Logothete in the morning and then come back.”

  “I’m upsetting your household.”

  “Never mind. My mother—well—spends most of her time on her knees, praying. You won’t see her. Cook will get you something to eat.” And with that, he showed me to a small upstairs room, tossed some bedding at me, and bade me sleep well. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep at all. I doubt he did either.

  I spent a long, dull day in his house until, after sundown, Psellus returned with Eustathius in a closed carriage, the two of them rushing in through the door as though they expected the Guardian of Orphans to spring out at them from behind a shrubbery. This made a deep impression on me. If this man Eustathius, a powerful official in his own right, was so afraid of John and his spies that he must sneak into Psellus’s house like a thief in the night, then truly I was facing something far more dangerous than even I had imagined—and I have a lively imagination.

  Dinner was served to us by an elderly servant and for the next hour the Logothete interrogated me in his precise and careful way, making me go over my story again and again, dredging up every detail I could remember of what John and Harald had said. He wanted to know what sort of man Harald was. Here I was eloquent as I’d given that subject much thought over the years.

  I repeated what Dag Ringsson had told me once about Harald’s childhood: the ‘unnatural weed’ who by the age of thirteen was taller than most grown men and expected to play a man’s part before he was ready; the sense of grievance against his half-brother, King Olaf, whose father came of nobler stock; the endless boasting that covered the gnawing fear that no one regarded him as well as he deserved; the ease with which he cast off friends who no longer served his purpose; the quite genuine talent for leading men in battle.

  “You describe a very dangerous man,” Eustathius summed up, smiling bleakly, when I had finished. “And you said you were sent here to kill him? I wish you had succeeded.”

  “That isn’t what you said to me yesterday, sir,” I reminded him.

  “That was yesterday.”

  “He still could,” Psellus offered.

  “Out of the question. It would enrage the Varangians, it would frighten John—and John frightened is not something I care to contemplate.”

  “Well, at least,” Psellus said, “we must warn the Commandant.”

  Again Eustathius shook his head. “Sveinn Gudleifsson drinks too much and talks too much. We can
’t have him charging about like a mad bull.”

  Psellus, having run out of ideas, lapsed into silence. Eustathius realized at once that the boy’s pride was hurt and he lay a reassuring hand on his knee. “Thank you, Costas” —he called him by the familiar form of his first name: there was something of the father and son about these two—“we will hit upon the right plan.” He turned an appraising eye on me. “You want to be useful to us?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you will continue to be Harald’s man. Whatever you learn of his plans you will report to Psellus here, never directly to me. As long as the Emperor lives there is nothing we can do but, at the instant of his death, we must be ready. God forbid that young delinquent, Stephen’s son, whom they browbeat Zoe into adopting, should ever come to the throne. Now, John wants his own Varangian? It occurs to me that I want my own Varangian. I don’t know them well, not my job to. What if you were to join the Guard, Odd Thorvaldsson?”

  My heart leapt. “Could it be arranged?”

  “Yes, but not in haste. Nothing must seem forced. John is hoping for a war in which Harald can shine. Are you a warrior, too? I hope you are, because war is coming.” He drained his glass and stood up. “I’m expected home. I’m a man of regular habits. Nothing I do, nothing you do, must seem out of the ordinary. Odd, I will escort you back to your apartment. The less Costas’s family see of you the better. From now on, you and he will meet at a fixed hour, one day a week, always in a different place. Work out the details between you. From time to time he will have money for you, a retainer, as it were. Don’t spend it ostentatiously. I gather he has already become your mentor, of a sort. You couldn’t ask for a better one.”