The Varangian

by Bruce Macbain

  They left me there, curled on my side, my throat raw with screaming, the blood pounding in my feet, sending pains like lightning bolts up my legs. And here, I thought to myself, I will lie until I die, and for what? Damn you, Stig.

  The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was the face of my wife.

  26

  Selene’s Tale

  February, 1040

  The cart jolts along the frozen track from the city, rattling her teeth with every bounce. Selene shivers and hugs her cloak tighter to her chest. The little pony cart gives no protection from this wind, an icy gale that blows down from the Golden Horn and whirls snowflakes around her so thick she can hardly see. Her eyes stream with tears. From the wind? From humiliation? Anger? All.

  Her mare lowers its head to the wind and struggles on, as cold as she is, poor beast. When at last they reach her father’s house, it turns in at the path and heads for the shed, needing no word from her. It whinnies and there is an answering whinny. Alypius’s pair. He is here again. Now she sees his big covered carriage with its gilded doors and velvet curtains pulled up beside the house. The liveried coachman emerges from the shed and runs toward her.

  “Let me help you down, Miss. You must be half frozen.” Miss. As though she were a mere girl without a husband. “I’ll see your animal is rubbed down and fed. We’ve brought a bushel of good fodder with us this time.”

  “Thank you, Paulus.” She doesn’t like accepting these favors. There have been too many of them.

  Alypius meets her at the door and draws her inside, putting his big hands around hers and rubbing them. A handsome man of middle age, his hair blond with gray starting in it, a comfortable paunch, florid face, expensive clothes. “Horrid weather to be out in. What were you thinking, Selene? Why didn’t you ask to use my coach and driver? Melampus tells me you went to see some petty bureaucrat? I hope you found him, at least.”

  The room is stifling, braziers smoking in every corner of it. The charcoal another gift from Alypius. Well, they need it, don’t they? In spite of the heat, her father lies in his bed, wrapped in blankets up to his chin. He lifts an eyebrow at her. Was Psellus there? What did he say you?

  “No,” she answers both of them. “It seems the man has moved house lately. I went to the palace but no one there would tell me anything.”

  “Shocking,” says Alypius in his loud baritone. “Can’t say I’m surprised. These high and mighty officials. But why didn’t you ask me to go with you? I’m not without influence, you know.” She knows. He says so often enough. “Anyway, sit and have something warm to drink. Your father and I have had a jolly time, talking about demons and spirits and such. I always enjoy our conversations.” Does he, really? Alypius claps his hands. “Martha, bring your mistress a warm posset.” He orders their servant around as though he were in his own house. “Come, take that off, it’s wet.” He removes her cloak for her, leaving his hands on her shoulders a moment too long. “Still no news of your husband, then?” Have they no secrets at all from this man? She has little to say to Alypius, but her father … the old man, so trusting, so guileless.

  She goes to the bed and kisses his forehead, the skin dry and yellow as parchment. He never leaves his bed anymore, the tremors are too violent for him to stand, and he has no more breath in him. The vapors of mercury—the precious stuff of Hermes, the key that he hoped would let him perfect nature, turn base metal into gold, maybe even bestow immortality—they are killing him instead. He smiles at her wanly, “When spring comes, my dear, the sailing season. I’m sure …” He pats her hand.

  When spring comes. They always say this. But Odd has been gone for two springs now. It has been a year-and-a-half since his one letter arrived from Messina. It has been eight months since the money stopped arriving from the Logothete’s office, money they depended on to survive—or would, if it weren’t for Alypius. “When spring comes,” she and her father tell each other, each pretending, for the other’s sake, to believe it. And meanwhile not a word from Psellus. He has abandoned them, or maybe is just embarrassed to have nothing for them. And she has been too proud to ask, until finally Melampus pleaded with her to go and speak to him, and she couldn’t refuse any more because her father will soon be dead. They both know it. So she went, carrying a bundle of the letters they have written to Odd over these months, written and saved with no way to send them—and failed to find Psellus. And now what?

  Myrinna, Alypius’s eight-year-old daughter, has been playing in the corner with little Gunnar and the monkey. She runs up to Selene and takes her hands. “Didn’t you bring me anything from the city, Auntie?” When did she become this girl’s ‘auntie’?

  “I’m sorry, no, dear. How are you feeling today?” Myrinna is thin, with mouse-colored hair and skin you can almost see through.

  One always has to ask how Myrinna is feeling. She has a variety of complaints. Her father brought her to their door back in the summer of’thirty-eight, not long after Odd had sailed away. A widower with a sick child, needing to consult a doctor. He was, he told them, an architect and builder, of good family, doing very well for himself. He had a house in the city that was much too big for him, he said, and an olive orchard he had recently bought in their neighborhood. Melampus had been recommended by a mutual acquaintance—both as physician and as delver into the mysteries of the cosmos. Since then, his daughter seems never to get much better or much worse, but Alypius continues to bring her, once a month, sometimes more, sometimes less. Once there was an unexplained hiatus of several months and then he reappeared. He always pays Melampus’s fee as if this were a real consultation, although it is obvious that the old man is past curing anyone. And he always brings food and charcoal. Unobtrusively, not with any great display. But there it is. And there are more intimate gifts for her—an amethyst bracelet, a topaz ring. These she has tried to refuse, but he won’t allow it. You don’t argue with Alypius. And what, Selene asks herself, will he demand in return? He has done nothing so far but look at her. But she feels herself go rigid when she knows his eyes are on her.

  Now Gunnar runs up to her, clutching Ramesses in his little yellow coat. The children have been feeding him chestnuts. She lifts boy and beast in the air and spins them around. Odd once laughed that if they had a baby it would resemble the monkey. She smiles to think of it. What a handsome boy he is now! Sturdy legs and strong arms, straight black brows and long lashes, and his head a mass of unruly black curls. ‘Tangle-Hair’, she calls him sometimes.

  Tangle-Hair. Is he alive or dead? Happy or sad? Alone or with a woman? Has he forgotten them entirely? At night, when Gunnar crawls up beside her in the bed, she lies awake for hours, stroking his hair and thinking. What would she do if Odd were to walk in the door at that moment? Throw herself in his arms, or spit in his eye? Sometimes she feels one way and sometimes the other. It wearies her to think of it.

  And when Alypius, as he too often does, delivers his thoughts on the subject of barbarians, his face pulled into a sympathetic frown, his voice insinuating—“Can’t trust those fellows, all of’em the same, irresponsible, care about nothing but their bellies and their balls, pardon my bluntness”—then she excuses herself and goes into the bedroom and fights back her tears.

  March

  She has tried again to see Psellus, and this time has gone into the palace and wandered the corridors until someone shows her to the Logothete’s suite of offices. But Psellus isn’t there. She waits in an anteroom for hours, watching men come and go, catching at scraps of whispered conversation. An elderly usher takes pity on her, gives her a cup of water and a sympathetic smile. Should she have brought money for a bribe? That’s how things are done here. But she has none.

  She is about to go when suddenly Psellus bustles through the door, dictating a letter to a secretary who trails behind him. She catches at his sleeve as he passes by. He is startled. At first, he seems not to recognize her. Then he looks embarrassed, apologetic. “Selene, what a long time it’s been! News of Odd? Alas,
no. The siege drags on. Frustrating for all of us. Our communications with Sicily, well, they’ve rather broken down. But we haven’t heard that he’s dead. Always room to hope. Send someone to find him? I’m afraid that’s not possible. The subsidy? I’m terribly sorry, these days we must all make sacrifices. I’d like to help, truly.” He reaches into the purse at his belt and pulls out a few silver coins. “Afraid I haven’t much on me, but, you know, whatever I—”

  She hesitates an instant, then snatches them from his hand and flees.

  “I’ll send a man with …” Psellus starts to say, but she has already vanished down the crowded corridor.

  At home again, she sits by her father’s bed. Mercifully, Alypius isn’t here and they can speak freely, father and daughter.

  “If he offered you marriage, my dear?” She has to strain to make out his words, his voice is like a whisper of wind in tall grass.

  “I am married, Father.”

  “But we must be practical, about money, you know. I never was. Forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” She kisses his hand, dropping a tear on it.

  He goes on. “Alypius likes you … more than likes. I notice things, you know. Needs a woman in his house, Myrinna needs a mother, Gunnar a father. I loved Odd, too, but we must be realistic. I won’t be here—”

  “Stop now, please.”

  April

  “A carriage ride’s just the thing,” Alypius says. “Lovely weather out, everything blooming, we’ll bundle him up, do the old fellow good, fresh air, take the young’uns along too, where are they, outside?”

  They thought Melampus was asleep. He’d had a very bad night, coughing, struggling to breathe, but finally dropped off around sunrise. Suddenly, he sits bolt upright in the bed. “Odd! It’s Odd!”

  She rushes to his side, puts her arm around his thin shoulders to hold him up. “What about Odd? What do you see?”

  Because as the soul parts from the body it sees more clearly. Everyone, knows that.

  “Darkness … pain, such pain … no hope …”

  “Father, don’t say so.”

  The old man’s heart is fluttering like a bird’s, his eyes fixed in a distant stare. What does he see?

  “Selene, you … you …”

  “Hush, dear.” Then the eyes go blank. A thread of saliva runs from the corner of his mouth. His soul flies up to the stars, where Thrice-Great Hermes reigns and everything is gold.

  She lays her head on his breast and lets her tears flow.

  Alypius comes up behind her, touches her on the back. “Well,” he says and clears his throat. “Very sad, very sad. I know he had his own notions about religion but I’ll see he gets a proper Christian burial nonetheless. Can’t be too careful in these matters. You leave everything to me.”

  27

  The Battle of Troina

  [Odd resumes his narrative]

  My feet were swollen to twice their normal size and were turning black. I was terrified I would lose them. Escape was impossible. I tried dragging myself along the floor of the supply tent on my elbows and stomach, but even that was too painful. Day after day I lay there, listening to the sounds of the camp—distant music, the whickering of horses, the throaty groan of the camels, the five wailing calls to prayer that punctuated the day. Guttural unintelligible voices, occasional laughter. I could see nothing but the alternation of light and shadow creeping across the narrow opening of the tent flap. Twice a day a guard brought some foul rice gruel and a cup of water. Once, the Grand Vizier stepped inside to look at me, said nothing, and left. I don’t know how long this went on; a week? Maybe longer. And during all this time I saw nothing of Stig or Moses. Where were they? Had they left me here to die?

  And then one morning I was wakened from my stupor by the noise and bustle of the camp breaking up. Officers shouting orders, tents coming down, protesting camels lurching to their feet, the clatter of arms. A couple of soldiers dragged me from my little prison, tossed me into the back of a donkey cart, and tied one of my arms to the side of it. Presently the Grand Vizier appeared with Moses at his side.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, shocked by the croak of my voice; I hadn’t heard it in days.

  The Vizier answered and Moses translated. To Syracuse. The astrologers, he said, had consulted their charts and promised a perfect alignment of the planets. The Emir’s victory was assured. “And when we get there, you will draw us a plan of the siege lines and we will let you live—that is, if you still want to.” He cast a glance at my feet. He walked away, leaving me alone with Moses.

  Moses put out a hand and touched my shoulder lightly. “Odd Tangle-Hair, I come from a race of hard men. I’ve never seen anyone live through a beating like this and not break down.”

  “I did break down.”

  “You didn’t. Otherwise we’d all be dead now. Anything you ever want from me, just ask.”

  “But we failed.”

  “Not yet. Those beautiful pigeons of mine? It seems last night someone left their cage open. They’ve all flown away.”

  “And they’ll get back to Maniakes?”

  “If there is a God.”

  “Where’s Stig?”

  “With his sons-in-law. The boys are scared witless, they weren’t brought up to soldiering. He wants to see you, to apologize for—all this. But it wouldn’t look right for him to show any more interest in you. Me either. I’d better go now. Try to hold out.”

  The Emir’s army, in a long straggling column, marched for four days across country from Mistretta. The jolting of the cart put me in constant pain, it was much worse than lying in the tent. On the fourth day we passed through a defile and debouched into a narrow valley overlooked by the village of Troina, high on its jutting peak.

  I had been sleeping fitfully but awoke. It was late in the afternoon. The air was still. The cart I rode in, along with the rest of the baggage train, came to a halt near a stand of wild olive trees where a little stream ran by. While grooms and drivers were busy watering the animals, I gazed off into the distance. Something moving in one of those trees caught my eye—something white—a white pigeon. Fluttering its wings as it flew from one branch to another. Were they ours? Were they all sitting there placidly in a tree? Was all my suffering for nothing after all? “If there is a God,” Moses said. Well, whose god? Not his, not any of mine. At that moment I gave up all hope. I think I cried aloud.

  Then I wiped my eyes and looked again, up past the trees—and saw a flash of metal on the hill to the west. And then a line of lance points glittering in the setting sun! And then the whole ridge was dark with moving men, like a spreading shadow. There were no trumpet calls, no shouts or war cries. It was Maniakes, and he was following the rule in the Strategikon that says an army should advance in absolute silence until the last fifty yards. It is an unnerving sight, that silent advance. You can imagine with what feeling I watched it.

  Our men were almost upon them before most of the Saracen camp realized what was happening. And then there was panic. Men, horses, camels running this way and that, colliding. Tents crashing down. Greek and Norman lancers charging, wheeling, thundering through the camp, riding down everything in their path, Maniakes on his great black warhorse brandishing the standard of Saint George. Khazars whooping, circling, loosing volley after volley of arrows. And the Varangians. The long-tailed dragon standard fluttering above them, Harald at their head, carving a bloody path with their axes, yelling their war cry. And then Stig and Moses were beside me, helping me down from the cart, one under each of my arms.

  Arrows were flying so thick it was dangerous to stick your head up. The three of us crouched behind the cart until it was all over. Which wasn’t long. The sun had barely set behind the hills when the fighting ended. We suffered almost no casualties, but the slaughter among the Saracens was great. The ground was carpeted with bodies.

  I lay that night on a pile of silks and sheepskins in the Emir’s gorgeous tent, now occupied by Maniakes and Harald.
In both their faces I saw pain—pity, I suppose—when they looked at me.

  Stig knelt by my feet, applying ointments and cold cloths for the swelling. A Greek doctor, Maniakes’s personal physician, tried to interfere but Stig drove him away with a look. I remembered how Stig had treated my scorched feet with that same gentle, almost woman’s touch all those years ago when I was a boy and had crawled through a hole in the wall from my burning house. But my wounds then had not been his fault. These were. I saw it in his eyes.

  “Tangle-Hair, I—”

  “Stop. None of that.” I knew what he wanted to say. “I volunteered for this. There’s no more to be said.”

  As news spread of what we had done and what I had suffered, the tent filled with Varangians eager to congratulate me. (Although Halldor and Bolli weren’t among them.) “You must make up a poem about it, Tangle-Hair,” said Gorm.

  “No, I will compose a poem for my skald,” said Harald. “A brave man shouldn’t have to sing his own praises.”

  “And I,” said Gorm, “will make you a pair of crutches. You’ll have them tomorrow.”

  Maniakes pulled up a stool beside me. “When Syracuse falls, which it must soon now, you will find me generous, Odd Thorvaldsson. We owe you much.”

  Two of the six pigeons, he said, had made it back to their roost with notes that Moses had written in minute handwriting, giving the date that the Emir started out and his route of march.

  “I came at once with the cavalry, leaving most of our infantry behind, except for a hundred Varangians at Harald’s insistence. We mounted them on spare horses.”

  “And our backsides!” laughed Gorm. None of the Varangians were experienced riders.

  “Let him sleep now,” said Stig. He mixed a pellet of opium in a cup of wine and held it to my lips. Before I closed my eyes, I’m sure I saw Stig, the Muslim abstainer, lift the jug to his own lips and take a long, grateful pull from it.