Sworn Brother v-2

by Tim Severin

  Thorstein shook his head. 'Out of the question. Right now there are many more volunteers than vacancies and a long waiting list. I paid a hefty bribe to get in. Four pounds of gold is the going rate for the greedy officials who maintain the army list. Of course the pay scales are so good that you earn the money back in three or four years. The emperor knows enough to keep his guardsmen happy. They're the only troops he can trust in this city of intrigues and plots.' He thought for a moment, then added, 'Maybe there is a way of arranging for you to be close at hand, but you will have to be very discreet. Each guardsman has the right to have one valet on regimental strength. It's a menial job, but it provides you with a billet in the main barracks. I have not yet exercised my nomination.'

  'Won't there be a risk that Ongul will see and recognise me?' I asked.

  'Not if you keep in the background,' Thorstein answered. 'The Varangian guard has grown in size. There are nearly five hundred of us nowadays and we no longer all fit into the Numera Barracks. Two or three platoons are quartered in the former barracks of the excubitors — they are the palace regiment of Greek guardsmen. Their regimental strength is in decline, while ours is growing. That's where Thorbjorn Ongul has his room - another reason why it's been difficult for me to find the right moment to challenge him over Grettir's death.'

  So it was that I became Thorstein Galleon's valet, not a very demanding task as it turned out. At least not for someone who, as a youngster, had been on the palace staff of that great dandy, King Sigtryggr of Dublin. I had learned a long time ago how to comb and plait hair, wash and press clothes, and polish armour and weapons till they gleamed. And it turned out to be the Varangians' pride in their weapons which provided Thorstein with the opportunity to take revenge, far earlier than he or I had expected.

  The Byzantines love pomp. More than any other nation I have seen, they adore pageantry and outward show. I can scarcely recall a single day when they did not have some sort of parade or ceremony in which the basileus took a prominent part. It might be a procession from the palace to attend a service in one of the many churches, a formal parade to commemorate a victory of the army, or a trip to the harbour to inspect the fleet and the arsenal. Even a local excursion to the horse races at the Hippodrome — less than a bow shot from the palace outer wall — was organised by the master of ceremonies and his multitude of officious staff. They kept an immensely long list of precedence, detailing who held what rank in the palace hierarchy, what their precise title was, who was senior to whom, how they must be addressed, and so forth. When an imperial procession formed up to leave the palace grounds, these busybodies could be seen rushing around, making sure that everyone was in their correct place in the column and carried the proper emblem of rank — a jewelled whip, a gold chain, inscribed ivory tablets, a rolled-up diploma, a sword with a golden hilt, a jewelled gold collar, and so forth. For onlookers it was easy to identify the imperial family: only they were allowed to wear the colour purple, and immediately in front and behind of them marched the guards, just in case of trouble.

  The Varangians carried the symbols of their trade: battleaxe and sword. The axe had a single blade, often inlaid with expensive silver scrollwork. The haft was waxed as far as the two-handed grip with its fancy, hand-stitched leatherwork. Both blade and shaft were polished until they gleamed. The heavy sword was worn, as I have mentioned, dangling from the right shoulder, but there was a problem when it came to its embellishment because a sword with a gold hilt was the emblem of a spartharios, a court official of middle rank whose rights and privileges were jealously preserved. So the guardsmen found other ways to ornament their weapons. In my time in Constantinople silver sword handles were popular, and some soldiers had their swords fitted with grips made of exotic wood. Nearly all the men had paid the scabbard makers to have their sword sheaths covered in scarlet silk to match their tunics.

  Less than a week after I had taken up my duties as Thorstein's valet, a message arrived at the Numera barracks from the logothete, a high official of the chancery. The basileus and his entourage were to process to a service of thanksgiving in the church of Hagia Sophia, and the guard was to provide the usual imperial escort. However, the logothete — he was far too grand to speak for himself but sent a deputy - stressed that the occasion was sufficiently important for the entire guard to be on parade in full regalia. The procession was scheduled to take place in three days' time.

  Typically, the first response of the senior officers was to order a dress rehearsal, which took place in the great square before the Numera barracks. I watched from an upper window and had to admit that I was impressed. The Varangian guard looked awe-inspiring, rank upon rank of burly, heavily bearded axemen, fierce enough in appearance to terrify any opposition. Even Thorstein, with his great height, was overtopped by several colleagues, and I spotted Thorbjorn Ongul with his villainous one-eyed look.

  The moment the dress rehearsal ended, I and the other orderlies hurried out into the square to collect up the tunics, sword belts and other accoutrements which we would have to keep clean and neat until the procession itself. Naturally a number of the soldiers gathered in groups to gossip and at that point I saw Thorstein walk across and join the group which included Thorbjorn Ongul. Rashly, I followed.

  Taking up my position on the edge of the circle, I took care to keep out of Thorbjorn Ongul's sight, but moved close enough to see what was going on. As I had noted with the Jomsvikings, soldiers love nothing better than to compare their weaponry and this is precisely what the guardsmen were doing. They were showing off their swords, axes and daggers to one another and making claims, mostly exaggerated, about the merits of each item - its excellent balance, its sharpness, how it kept an edge when hacking at a wooden shield, the number of enemies the weapon had despatched, and so on. When it came to Ongul's turn, he unhitched his scabbard, withdrew his sword and flourished it proudly.

  My mouth went dry. The sword which Ongul held up for all to see was the very same sword which Grettir had looted from the barrow mound in my company. I recognised it at once. It was a unique weapon, beautifully made with that wavy pattern in the metal of the blade that denotes the finest workmanship of the Frankish swordsmiths. It was the sword Ongul had wrenched from Grettir's hand, chopping off his fingers to release his grip as my sworn brother lay dying on the squalid floor of his hideout on Drang. I made a mental note to tell Thorstein how the sword came to be in Ongul's possession, but Grettir's killer did it for me. The guardsman standing next to Ongul asked if he might look more closely at the weapon and Ongul proudly handed over the sword. The guardsman sighted along the blade and pointed out to Ongul that there were two nicks on the cutting edge.

  'You should get those attended to. It's a shame that such a fine blade has such marks,' he said.

  'Oh no,' announced Ongul boastfully as he took back the sword. 'I made those nicks myself. They come from the day that

  I used this sword to put an end to the perverted outlaw, Grettir the Strong. This was his sword. I took it from him and those two nicks were made when I hacked off his head. Grettir the Strong was like no other man. Even his neck bones were like iron. It took four good blows to cut through his neck and that was when the sword edge was chipped. I wouldn't grind out those marks even if the commander-in-chief himself asked me to.'

  'Can I see the weapon?' asked a voice. I recognised the deep tones of Thorstein Galleon, and saw Ongul hand over the weapon. Thorstein swung the sword from side to side experimentally to find what a true swordsman calls the sweet spot, the balance point where the edge carries the most impact and a blade should meet its target. The sweep of Thorstein's swing made the crowd move back to give him more space and, to my horror, the man standing in front of me stepped aside and left me exposed to Ongul's view. He glanced round the circle and the gaze of his single eye setded on my face. I knew that he recognised me immediately as the man who had been carried off Drang after Grettir's death. I saw him frown as he tried to understand why I was there. But it was t
oo late.

  'This is to avenge Grettir Asmundarson, the man you foully murdered,' Thorstein called out as he stepped across the watching circle of men, raised the nicked sword and from his great height brought it slicing down directly on Ongul's unprotected skull. Thorstein had found the sweet spot. The sword bit through Ongul's skull and split his head like a melon. The man who had killed my closest friend died instantly.

  For a moment there was stunned silence. The onlookers gazed down at Ongul's corpse, sprawled on the flagstones of the parade ground. Thorstein made no move to escape. He stood with bloody sword in his grasp, an expression of profound satisfaction on his face. Then he calmly wiped the blood from the sword, walked across to where I stood and handed it to me with the words, 'In Grettir's memory.'

  As soon as word of the killing reached the excubitors, who were responsible for police duties, a Greek officer arrived to place Thorstein under arrest. He offered no resistance but allowed himself to be led quietly away. He was at peace with himself. He had done what he had set out to do.

  'He hasn't got a hope,' said Thorstein's platoon commander, looking on. He was a tough veteran from Jutland with ten years' service in the guard. 'To kill within the palace precincts is a capital offence. The pen pushers in the imperial secretariat dislike us so much that they will lose no opportunity to damage the regiment. They will say that Ongul's death was just another squalid brawl amongst bloodthirsty barbarians. Thorstein's as good as dead.'

  'Isn't there anything that can be done to help him?' I asked from the edge of the little group of onlookers. The Jutlander turned to look at me, standing there with Grettir's sword in my hand.

  'Not unless you can oil the wheels of justice,' he said. Grettir's sword felt like a living thing in my grasp. 'What happens when a guardsman dies on active service?' I asked.'

  'His possessions are divided among his comrades. That's our custom. If he leaves a widow or children, we auction off his personal effects and the money goes to them, along with any back pay that is outstanding.'

  'You say that Thorstein is as good as dead. Could you organise an auction of his possessions in the barracks, including the sale of this sword? Ongul told you how he looted it from Grettir the Strong, even used it for his death blow, and you've seen how Thorstein took it back.'

  The Jutlander looked at me in surprise. 'That sword's worth two years' salary,' he said.

  'I know, but Thorstein presented me with the weapon and I would gladly put it up for auction.'

  The platoon commander looked intrigued. He knew me only as Thorstein's valet and was probably curious to know what role

  I had played in this affair. Perhaps he was wondering if he could acquire the sword for himself. 'It's irregular, but I will see what I can do,' he said. It'll be better if the auction is held without the Greeks knowing. They would only claim that we were so avaricious that we sold off Thorstein's effects before he was even dead. Not that they can accuse others of avarice. They're the past masters.'

  'There's one more thing I would ask,' I continued. 'A lot of people heard Thorstein shout out the name of Grettir the Strong just before he cut down Thorbjorn Ongul. No one really knows why he did so, though there's a lot of speculation. If the auction could be held tonight, just when interest is at its height, it would attract the largest number. More than just his platoon.'

  In fact nearly half the regiment crowded into the courtyard of the Numera barracks to attend the auction that evening, cramming themselves into the porticos that surrounded the yard. It was precisely what I had wanted.

  Thorstein's platoon commander, Ragnvald, called them to silence. 'All of you know what happened this afternoon. Thorstein, nicknamed the Galleon, took the life of his fellow countryman, Thorbjorn Ongul, and none of us know why. Thorbjorn can't tell us because he's dead and Thorstein is in solitary confinement awaiting trial. But this man, Thorgils Leifsson, claims he can answer your questions, and he wants to auction the sword that Thorstein gave him.' He turned to me. 'Now it's your turn.'

  I climbed up on a block of stone and faced my audience. Then I held up the sword so all could see it and waited until I had their complete attention. 'Let me tell you where this sword comes from, how it was found among the dead, where it travelled, and the story of the remarkable man who owned it.' And then I proceeded to tell the tale of Grettir the Strong and his remarkable career, from the night we had robbed the barrow grave, through all our times together, both good and bad: how he had twice saved my life, first in a tavern brawl and then aboard a foundering ship. I told them about the man: how perverse and stubborn he could be, how often his best intentions had led to tragedy, how he could be violent and brutal, how he did not know his own strength and yet had struggled to remain honest to himself in the face of adversity. I went on to describe his life as an outlaw in the wilderness, his victories in hand-to-hand combat over those who had been sent to kill him and how, finally, he had been defeated by black seidr invoked by Thorbjorn Ongul's volva foster-mother, and had died on Drang.

  It was Grettir's saga and, as I told it, I knew that the men who heard it would remember and repeat the tale so that Grettir's name would live on in honoured memory. I was fulfilling my final promise to my sworn brother.

  When I had finished my tale, the Jutlander stood up. 'Time to auction the sword of Grettir the Strong,' he called out. 'From what we have just heard, Ongul's death was not murder, but an act of honourable revenge, justified under our own laws and customs. I suggest that the money raised from the sale of this sword is put towards the expense of defending Thorstein Galleon in the law courts of Constantinople. I call upon you to be generous.'

  Then something remarkable happened. The bidding for the sword began, but it was not in the manner I had anticipated. Each of the Guardsmen shouted out a price far less than I had expected. One after another they called out a number and the Jutlander carved marks on a tally stick. Finally the bidding stopped. The Jutlander looked down at the marks. 'Seven pounds in gold, and five numisma. That's the total,' he announced. 'That should be enough to see that Thorstein avoids the hangman's rope, and receives instead a prison sentence.'

  He looked round the circle of watching faces. 'My platoon has a vacancy,' he called. 'I propose that it is filled, not by purchase, but by acclamation of our general gathering. I propose to you that the place of Thorstein Galleon is taken by the sworn brother to Grettir Asmundarsson. Do you agree?'

  A general mutter of agreement came back. One or two guardsmen banged their sword hilts on the stones. The Jutlander turned to me. 'Thorgils, you may keep the sword. Use it as a member of the guard.'

  And that is how I, Thorgils Leifsson, was recruited into the imperial guard of the basileus in Metropolis, and was on hand to pledge my allegiance to the man called the 'thunderbolt of the north' or, to some, the last of the Vikings. In his service I would travel to the very hub of the world, win spoils of war sufficient to rig a ship with sails of silk, and — as his spy and diplomat - come within an arrow's length of placing him on the throne of England.

  Thorstein Galleon did take his revenge on the murderer of Grettir his half-brother, according to Grettir's Saga written cad 1325. That saga traces the celebrated events in Grettir's life, from his rebellious childhood, through the plundering of a barrow grave and his many escapades as a notorious outlaw, to his eventual death on Drang Island at the hands of Thorbjorn Ongul and a posse of local farmers. Thorstein Galleon is said to have tracked down Thorbjorn Ongul to Constantinople and confronted him at a weapons inspection of the Varangian guard. Ongul was boasting how he had killed the outlaw with Grettir's own sword, taken from him as he lay dying. The weapon was passed from hand to hand among the guardsmen and when it came to Thorstein, in the words of the saga, 'Thorstein took the short sword, and at once raised it up and struck at Ongul. The blow landed on his head, and it was so powerful that the sword went right down to his jaws. Thorbjorn Ongul fell dead to the ground. Everyone was speechless .. .'

  from Grettir's Saga, t
ranslated by Denton Fox and Hermann Palsson, University of Toronto Press, 1998

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