The Varangian

by Bruce Macbain

  “I don’t know. Pass the word up to the diggers, tell’em to stop.”

  I didn’t like it in here. The damp smell of raw earth; the smoky, unbreathable air; the cramps in my legs and shoulders. And a palpable sense of dread. I knew where that came from: it invaded my dreams at night. Pohjola. The Copper Mountain. Where Old Louhi had buried her lover and sat raving and drooling over his corpse, and I, foolishly, had followed the wizard Vainamoinen down into its depths that stank of magic like a rotten egg. That memory would never leave me.

  “What is it now? What the hell’s the problem?” Halldor’s voice, surly.

  But what was coming at us wasn’t magic. It was worse.

  Suddenly, the tunnel ahead filled with the smoke of burning straw, and out of the smoke hurtled a humming whirlwind of black and yellow bodies. In our mouths, in our eyes, crawling on our arms and legs, so thick we could barely see. And stinging and stinging and stinging.

  “Run, in Christ’s name!” shouted Harald, his voice shrill with fear.

  The tunnel was so narrow two men could barely stand side by side. We trampled each other, clawed at each other to get away. No use. We huddled, motionless, helpless while the hornets stung us everywhere they could reach.

  I’ve been in a lot of battles. I’ve never, before or since, heard grown men wail and scream like this.

  Finally, our mates dragged us out and beat off the last of the insects. I was told later that Saracens are masters of the science of counter-mining. That they placed overturned metal bowls along the base of the wall, that magnified the sound of our digging, and they dug their own tunnel to intersect ours. As we straggled away from the wall—without our weapons; we’d dropped most of them in our frenzy to escape—there was laughter from above. And not only from above. There were catcalls from the Greeks too. And some even ran up to us, flapping their arms and making buzzing noises with their lips. The high-and-mighty Varangian Guard: lumpy, swollen, sore, tears running down our cheeks. Our humiliation was complete. Total. And enjoyed by all. It was then, I think, that we began to truly hate our enemy.

  That night Demetra and the other camp women collected plantain leaves, chewed them into a paste and daubed us with it. It helped a little.

  After this debacle, Harald knew that he had to do something to restore our morale. He waited a week until the swellings on our faces and hands had mostly gone away and then he and I together rowed out in a small boat to where Stephen’s flagship rode at anchor in the harbor. Harald was done taking orders from Maniakes; we were striking out on our own. He had decided to make the Varangians into his own private army. We would go where we wanted, when we wanted, and keep all the spoils for ourselves. The Greek fleet, in addition to its big dromons and transports, also had about twenty light, shallow-bottomed scout craft, hardly different in size from our Norse long ships. Stephen readily handed these over; nothing pleased him more than helping his barbarian friend while sticking his thumb in Maniakes’s eye.

  And so we set out to be vikings.

  Day after day we rowed, sometimes one ship alone, sometimes several together, feeling our way south along the coast, all the way to the southernmost tip of the island; stopping wherever we spied a village or a town, or best of all, some rich country estate, surrounded by fields where the crops were starting. And we weren’t particular who we attacked, Saracen or Greek. These were pirate raids pure and simple; anyone was our meat. We struck like lightning, and wherever we struck we left smoking ruins in our wake; and anything living, man or beast, that wasn’t worth taking, we killed.

  We were often gone for a week at a time and when we sailed back our boats were laden with jewelry and coin and captives to be ransomed, or sometimes only goats and chickens, because we were always hungry. It was the life I had once led; I loved it. The rest of the army gave us envious looks, but stayed out of our way. And Maniakes, who had gone back to sulking in his headquarters, ignored us.

  It pains me to admit it but maybe this is the place to say how impressed I was with Harald. In spite of all his boasting and bullying, he was a brave warrior and a skilled tactician. He kept us in line, he settled quarrels, broke up scuffles that could turn deadly if they were allowed to. He was stern when he had to be (he hanged two Guardsmen for rape), but never savage like Maniakes. I learned a lot about handling men from watching Harald. He had the makings of a king, as would be proved hereafter—but for all that, I could not bring myself to like him. I’m not sure that anyone really liked Harald, even Halldor, who carried his standard and stood next to him in the battle line. Harald’s self-love was so huge that he wanted only praise—and that constantly—not affection.

  As proof of what I mean, take the stories about these raids in Sicily that Harald told in later years and that found their way into his Saga. For example, the one where he had the idea to burn down a town by tying sulfur to the tails of the swallows that nested in the eaves of the houses; or the one where he staged his own funeral and had his coffin carried through the town gate where we wedged it open and he leapt out, sword in hand. If only the truth were so amusing. Mere truth was never quite good enough for Harald. But then who am I, an old man now, penniless and alone in my ruined house, owning nothing but my memories, to criticize Harald the Ruthless, the late, great King of Norway?

  It is of no matter for now I come to the part of my story that really is amazing. And whether you want to believe it or not is up to you. Sometimes I hardly believe it myself.

  We had beached our ship at a little promontory called Punta del Cane and struck inward on foot, following a well-trodden path that must lead somewhere. There were only twelve of us from Harald’s bandon, but we felt tough enough for anything we might meet. An hour’s tramp brought us in sight of a very handsome country estate with a big central house, outbuildings, gardens, orchards, all surrounded by stands of poplar and cypress.

  “Ah,” Gorm breathed, balancing his ax. We would dine well tonight.

  All at once, the dogs started barking, Harald yelled “Charge!” and we leapt the fence, crashed through the door, and rushed into the house. It was a Saracen house. They were just sitting down to dinner. Veiled women ran around shrieking. But twenty men, some young, some old, all armed with razor-sharp scimitars, stood facing us, ready to sell their lives. Their leader was a villainous-looking character with a squint in one eye. He was dressed in a long, loose gown of fine cotton and a turban, whose tail was drawn across the lower half of his face. We halted and stared at them. The man with the squint slashed the air with his scimitar and came toward us. This was more opposition than we usually encountered.

  “Throw down your weapons,” yelled Harald (in Norse, naturally, what else?) “and we’ll spare your lives.”

  “Fuck your mother, half-troll,” said the man with the squint. “Come and get’em.”

  The funny thing was that he said it in perfect Icelandic.

  That squint. That gravelly voice. No…

  “Stranger,” I said to him, “uncover your face for me.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes.

  “Tangle-Hair!”

  24

  Too Clever by Half

  “Stig?”

  His ugly pockmarked face broke into a smile. “Well, it’s a small world, as they say.”

  “But what are you doing here?”

  Before he could answer me, the others crowded around us.

  “You know this man?” asked Harald, incredulous.

  “He was my shipmate, my friend, my—well, it’s a long story.”

  Stig turned to his men and said something low and guttural. Their points dropped.

  “What, no looting?” said Halldor, truculent. It was clearly a rich house. The walls were decorated with colorful tiles, the carpets expensive, pots of flowers and cages of plumed birds, copper plates chased with silver on ebony tables, the room itself spacious and surrounded by arched colonnades that led to gardens beyond. The stuff here could be worth a fortune.

  “So what if he�
��s some old friend of yours,” Halldor kept on, “what’s that to us? Probably a heathen like you. Let’s just kill him and go.”

  The men looked at Harald, who, for a long moment seemed uncertain. Finally, he said, “I want to hear this man’s story. Then we’ll decide. Put away your swords.”

  Halldor spat in disgust, rammed his sword into its scabbard, and stalked away.

  “Who’s that charming fellow?” said Stig under his breath. I could see beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “Would you believe Halldor, the son of Snorri-godi?”

  “Hmpf. Should’ve guessed. Same sweet temper.”

  Of course, Stig had been with me at the Althing when Snorri, the most powerful chieftain in Iceland, had gotten my brother and me banished on a trumped-up charge of murder. And it was Stig who planned my escape after the house-burning, who taught me to sail and went a-viking with me. His eyes flicked back and forth between Halldor and me and he looked thoughtful. “I’m surprised one of you hasn’t killed the other yet.”

  “We’ve tried,” I said.

  “And what wind blows you here, Tangle-Hair?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “Well, if we aren’t going to fight,” Gorm broke in, “can we at least sit down?”

  “Forgive me,” said Stig, “where are my manners?” He addressed Harald. “I don’t know your name, stranger, but the Prophet, peace be upon Him, tells us never to turn away a guest. My larder is poor but you and your men are welcome to share what you were about to steal.”

  I saw a flicker of a smile cross Harald’s lips.

  We sat on cushions, crowded around a huge steaming platter of saffron rice with bits of mutton, vegetables, dates, and olives. A servant poured scented water over our hands and Stig recited a prayer in that strange language and touched his beard (he had grown it very long and full and grey was starting in it). Following his example, we scooped up the food with our right hands. (Gorm, who was left-handed, tried to use that one, but Stig corrected him. The left hand is only for wiping your ass.) While we talked, a young girl, sitting in the corner, played tunes on a lute.

  Stig peered at me. “You’ve aged some.”

  “So have you.” I reckoned he was closer to fifty than forty now. It had been nearly ten years since we parted in Aldeigjuborg. That memory was still bitter. We had been friends. Stig had taught me everything I knew about sailing, and much else. Yet we had parted enemies thanks to my pigheadednes.

  “The big Norwegian boy,” said Stig, “the one who nearly sank us in the Neva because you wouldn’t steer out of his way? I wonder where he is now?”

  “You’re sitting across from him. Allow me to introduce Harald Sigurdsson, a captain in the Greek Emperor’s Guard. I’m his skald.”

  Stig looked off into the distance, as was his way, and spoke to a point above my shoulder. “The Norns have woven your fates together, you and he.”

  “I fear they have.”

  Then there were questions all around, everyone wanting to know our story, and Stig and I talked about Lapland and Finland and Norway, about storms and battles. It was pleasant to hear Stig confirm all this. I was afraid no one believed my stories. Sometimes I wondered myself if half of them were true.

  Gorm leaned forward eagerly. “You knew Glum, my brother?”

  Stig studied him. “Your brother? Yes, I see it in the face. I say, you’re not a … a…?”

  “Berserker? No.”

  “Well, I’m relieved to hear it. I liked your brother, good man in a fight, but he was, ah, unpredictable sometimes. Well, fancy us all being together like this.”

  Only one ingredient was lacking to our feast. “Stig, is there any wine, it’s been a thirsty day.”

  “Ah, Tangle-Hair, a Believer may not drink wine.”

  There was some grumbling about this from our men, but Stig ignored them.

  “Are you serious?

  “Absolutely.”

  I gazed around the room. The beautiful latticework windows through which the setting sun shone, the costly furnishings, the hovering servants. “Stig, how…”

  He took a sip of sherbet, dabbed at his beard and began his tale. “After I stopped you from ramming Harald here in the river—”

  “And knocked me down.”

  “Yes, well you were having one of your fits, weren’t you? That was an evil day. I hope we’re friends again now.”

  “With all my heart, Stig. How I’ve missed you!”

  “Anyway, a few days later I heard you had fallen ill and were like to die. I went up to Jarl Rognvald’s hall to, well, to try to make things right between us, but Einar Tree-Foot turned me away, saying you were feverish and out of your head and weren’t to be vexed. The way that old man watched over you, like a mother with a sick child. And then the next thing we heard you’d recovered and gone up to Novgorod.

  “We wintered over, me and the lads, and when spring came, we sailed out in the Viper to raid in the Baltic. But we got little for our efforts and by the end of that summer we decided to split up and sell the ship. I thought about going back to Nidaros, to Bergthora. But I felt ashamed to go back poorer than I left, just to sit about in the inn and grow fat on her larder. It’s no life for a man. I thought of going back to Iceland, too. You remember old Hoskuld promised me a reward just for keeping you and his grandson out of trouble—as if I could.

  “But there was still so much of the world I hadn’t seen. So I signed on to pull an oar in a Danish merchantman bound for Spain. We prospered at first and I loved the life, until we were captured by an Arab pirate off the coast of Tunisia. I was sold as a slave and, after changing hands a few times, found myself here in Sicily in the household of my master, Youssef ben Aziz, a man of wealth and importance. In time, I learned to speak the language, though it’s fearsome hard, helped him in his business—I’m shrewd that way, you know—and earned my freedom. He died two years ago, leaving behind three widows and two married daughters, but no sons. Well, I and the principal wife got along so well that I turned Muslim and married her—she’s older than me but so was the Prophet’s first wife, blessings on her. And then I married the other two as well. And now I control a considerable property, both estates and merchant ships. These handsome young men”—he indicated the two sitting closest to him—“are my sons-in-law, Jafar and Othman. The rest are my retainers. I feed many from my table.”

  “I heartily congratulate you on your good fortune, Stig, though I never thought of you as a family man, or a religious one.”

  “Times change, young Tangle-Hair, and we change with them. When I worked for your uncle Hoskuld Long-Jaws I was a Christman—to outward appearances anyway; now I’m a follower of the Prophet, peace be upon Him.

  “I’ve heard there’s a certain operation involved? On your thing?”

  “There is, and it’s damned uncomfortable, but one recovers.”

  “Three wives! I’d like to meet the women who could live with you,” I laughed. “I swear no Iceland woman could.”

  “Ah, but these are gentle as doves. None of your Icelandic Valkyries for me. Never had any luck with them anyhow, poor landless ruffian that I was.” He clapped his hands and presently five shapeless figures emerged from the adjoining room. They were dressed in garments that covered them head to heel and they peered at us through tiny eye-slits. Their fingers and toes were stained with henna and they wore massive silver rings on their wrists and ankles.

  “Fatimah, Safiya, and Jumayah,” said Stig, “are my wives. “Aisha and Halima are my step-daughters.” They inclined their heads to us. Stig spoke a few low words to them, and they left us.

  “And you’ve never missed home, Stig?”

  “What, that stinking, barren, icebound rock, when I can live here and pick fruit off the trees? Where I bathe and wear clean clothes every day? Sprinkle myself with rosewater—”

  “Rosewater? Stig!” I think at that moment my jaw actually dropped open, the idea was so ludicrous.

  “And you know wh
at they call me here? Musa Ibn Abihi al-Qabih. That is, Musa No-One’s Son, the Ugly. Just what they called me back there.”

  “And people take you for a Saracen born?”

  “No, of course not, not with my accent. I don’t pretend to be other than what I am, but converts are dear to Allah.”

  After dessert, which was iced sherbet and sugared almonds, Stig leaned back, screwed his eyes up at the ceiling, and said: “I am a man of peace now. I try to take no part in wars. But I am informed of your affairs; the siege isn’t going well, is it? Now, I’m no particular friend of the Greeks, but as for our present Emir, I shit on his head. Two years ago he invaded our island, overthrew the old Emir, and slaughtered half a dozen relatives of my former master, who had been the old man’s ally. And ever since, he’s kept the island in turmoil, which is bad for business. I swore I would have my vengeance on him, and now I think I see the way to do it.”

  “What are you leading up to?” I asked warily.

  “If I could help your side to defeat him, would my estate be safe from pillaging? Would there be a bag or two of gold in it for me? Of course, what I have in mind is risky—for me and especially for you, Tangle-Hair, but you’ve never been afraid of a little danger since that day we stole Strife-Hrut’s ship.” He rolled his eyes and smiled at the memory of that great occasion, the start of our viking career.

  “Danger to me? You’d better say what you mean.”

  “Better yet, let us explain it to your general Maniakes and see what he says. Is there one among you who speaks his language?”

  “I do.”

  “You, Odd? Well, why am I not surprised? Clever lad. Let’s go then.”

  Less than four hours later we were sitting in Maniakes’s headquarters: Stig, Harald and me, Halldor and a few of the other Varangians, and Moses the Hawk. It hadn’t been easy to persuade the general to this meeting. He was always half-drunk by this time of evening and in a surly mood. If it was anyone but me I think he would have refused, but for some reason, which I never understood, he liked me.