V
Of Harald and Gyrgi
The next spring troops were ordered to Syria, where border warfare with the Saracens had grown unduly troublesome. They included a large Varangian corps under Harald. In this he suspected the hand of John, who was suspicious of the Norseman’s friendship with Novgorod and thus anxious to get him out of Constantinople. Harald was not unpleased; he had grown restless from a winter of dull guard duty and duller court functions, while the campaign to come offered good chance of booty.
The host went south across Anatolia, through green valleys, crossing ruddy mountain crags, rich fields and richer towns. This countryside was peaceful; even the lowliest peasant looked well fed. Though every commoner must keep weapons and be skilled in their use against a day of need, Halldor remarked how none went armed. “And at home a man takes a spear along when he goes to fetch in the cows.”
“That’s due to the Imperial guards and police,” Harald said. “What a power the Emperor has, to keep men reined in over so many miles!”
Halldor scowled. “The power of armies. Weapons or no, these folk are at the mercy of the court. I like it not.”
“One king, one power will make Miklagardh the mightiest realm on earth,” Harald argued. “At home we rip each other asunder.”
“Yet we may still sneeze without a royal by-your-leave,” the Icelander snapped, and edged his horse away.
Indeed, Harald thought,” the regular army of New Rome embodied strength. Each man of any sort, scutatus, archer, whatever he might be, was outfitted like his fellows; foot soldiers marched in step like an iron caterpillar, the highway smoked with dust under a thousand boots that struck it at once. But the heart of the army was the cataphract, the heavy lancer, sheathed in steel on a great horse that wore its own armor. When a line of those men charged, the earth shook, and the air thundered, and few stood firm before them. Light cavalry trotted on the wings, bows ready to hand. Then the war engines came trundling, catapults, mangonels, siege towers knocked down to carry in wagons; and the hospital corps and the quartermasters and a supply train followed all, snaking back farther than he could see. Lanceheads rose and fell, a wave went along them like the ripple in a wheatfield, banners burned above the dust.
In Christ’s name, he thought, to have such an instrument for his own!
The land sloped downward as days went by, until they were in the lower hills. There they met the main Byzantine host, and tents bloomed for miles around.
Harald went among the campfires to the great embroidered pavilion of the Archestrategos, Georgios Maniakes, who had already made a name for himself as a bold and cunning leader. Admitted past the guards, Harald entered, canvas brushing his head, and bowed to the man who sat behind a table poring over lists.
“Ah … Captain Araltes.” Georgios nodded curtly. He was a stocky man with a proud dark face, his garments rough and simple. “I only wished to know if you’ve anything to report of your march hither. Sickness? Incidents?”
Harald bristled but said, “Nothing, despotes. May I ask what your plans are now?”
“We’ll follow the Euphrates south into Syria, toward Aleppo. There’s a considerable enemy force in that direction which I hope to engage. If we can break them, the country lies open for us and we can teach those bastards a lesson they much need. As for you, your Varangians will be on the right wing. See my aide Bardas about the details.” He returned to his papers. “You may go. We march at dawn tomorrow.”
Harald left, gnawing his anger. That he, a king’s son, should be so dismissed by a mere noble! He swore to get his own back somehow.
The army traveled a few days without event. Then came a rainstorm, a wild sluicing downpour which choked the ravines with brown water and mired the wagons axle-deep. Harald soon gave up trying to keep himself dry, and when his horse began to shudder with weariness he went afoot like his men. “A cold camp tonight,” said Ulf. “I’ve no hankering to sleep in a puddle and wake with a running nose.”
“Let’s see if we can get on high ground,” said Harald.
Toward evening the rain stopped. Ahead of them rose a hill crowned with cedars, and the word was passed among the captains that this would be their campsite. “There’s not room for many on top,” Ulf grumbled. He glanced back at the Varangians, tiredly squelching through the mud. “It galls me that we must camp wet while the Greeks take the dry ground.”
Harald skinned his teeth in a grin. “Well,” he said, “we’ve longer legs than they do. Hop to it, lads!”
Laughter barked from the bearded, sun-darkened faces as his order went down the ranks. Mail clashed, axes bobbed; the Northmen broke into a trot. They passed the van, ignoring frantic trumpets, and climbed the hill in a rush. They were staking their tents and kindling their fires among the trees when Georgios Maniakes himself galloped up with an escort.
His big-nosed features were furious under the helmet. “You, there!” he shouted at Harald. “This is the place for the Archestrategos and his corps. Get down below.”
Harald strolled over to him and stood with eyes not much below the rider’s. An ax dangled loosely in his hand. One by one his men drifted nearer, hefting their weapons.
“Why, I’m sorry, despotes,” said Harald blandly, “but we came here first.”
“And I am your leader,” said Georgios.
Harald kept his tone steady.
“When you come first to a camping place, you take it and we must pitch where we can. Now you may do likewise this time. I think it’s ever been the right of the Varangians to steer their own affairs freely and be under none but the Emperor and Empress.”
“Not in my army,” said Georgios through taut lips.
“These men follow me,” Harald rapped. “I were a strange chief if I sent them back to lie in the muck.”
They disputed for a while with growing heat. The Varangians growled and closed in, the Greeks clapped hands to their swords. Harald wondered if there would be a fight. In his present mood, he would not regret that.
An older Byzantine officer urged his horse forward. “Despotes,” he said anxiously. “Good sirs, who are we supposed to be at quarrel with? Surely the Devil has joy of this.”
“Joy of him!” Georgios pointed at Harald with a shaking hand. His face was red. Harald’s had whitened, as ever when he was angered.
“But there must be a way to arbitrate.” The officer looked small in his gilt mail, there under the cedars and the gathering dusk. “We are Christian men. Let God decide.”
“I think God has more on His mind than where Gyrgi is going to sleep tonight,” said Harald.
“God looks after all things, despotes. If we drew lots …”
Georgios swallowed, “I am yielding my rights,” he said thickly. “But Hell take it, I’ve no men to waste on you overgrown children. Let it be by lot, then, and whoever wins shall have first choice of campsites throughout this campaign.”
Harald muttered agreement. His mind raced; it would not be good for his standing among the Varangians if he now lost.
The old officer got two dice and a grease pencil. “May each mark his, sirs, and I’ll draw one.”
Harald leaned close to Georgios. “Let me see what you put on yours so I do not mark mine likewise,” he said.
The Archestrategos scrawled a pi on his lot and gave the pencil to the Norseman, whose big hand hid what he placed on his own die. Both were cast into a folded cloak. The officer tumbled them about. “Whosever this be,” he said, “shall go first in the ranks and have first pick of night quarters.” He drew one forth.
“Let me see that!” Harald snatched it from him, glanced at it, and threw it into the downhill gloom, all in one movement. “I won,” he said. “That was ours.”
“Why did you not let the rest of us see it?” Georgios demanded.
Harald shrugged. “Look at the one remaining,” he said. “It bears your mark.”
Georgios gasped. “Do you believe … me … so stupid …” His glance fell on the burly Varangians. “Very well,” he said in a flat voice. He wheeled his horse and trotted downhill with his men. Laughter followed him the whole way.
Halldor rubbed his chin and murmured, “Yon Gyrgi is a man.”
There were many battles that summer. When Greeks and Varangians were separated, Harald led his men forward as boldly as he could. But when they fought together, he saw no reason for thinning the ranks of lads who trusted him, to the glory of Georgios Maniakes, and held back as much as possible, going to those points where the danger seemed least. Presently the Byzantine troops grumbled that Araltes was a more successful commander than their own. At last Georgios summoned Harald to his tent. The Norseman came armed, and a number of men stood close by outside.
A guttering lamp outlined Georgios’ bony face against the night. His fingers drummed on the tabletop and for a while he sat silent.
“You are an insolent one,” he began.
“I am a king,” said Harald.
“Only at home, if then.” Georgios watched him moodily. “But I thought you came hither to serve His Sacred Majesty.”
“So I did. Not to serve anyone else.”
“Well … I could make formal complaint against you.” Georgios stared out the tent opening, into the Syrian darkness. “But these are evil times and the Empire needs every sword. Since you and I have so many quarrels, it might be best if our troops parted.”
“It might indeed,” said Harald. He could not altogether hide the eagerness that sprang forth in him.
Georgios broke into one of his rare smiles. “Well, I shall issue such an order, then. In a way, I must admire your willfulness. Bootlickers are too common among us.”
Harald felt a swift liking for this lonely, short-tempered man, who must stand against not only the Saracens but his own auxiliaries and the court at home. He thrust out his hand. “If we are together again, Kyrios Maniakes,” he said, using the title for an equal, “I hope we can come to better agreement.”
“You may have grown up somewhat by that time,” growled the Byzantine, but with little sting in his words.
A few days later, the Varangians marched east to do their own warring. Save for a few Greek officers, who chiefly did the paperwork for him, Harald was now his own master.
Through the stark brown summer, he campaigned with much success. Moslem cavalry ran into the grounded pikes of his men; Moslem camps were plundered, towns brought under submission, booty and ransom gathered. Harald’s share was making him rich. In the fall, perhaps as a punishment, the Varangians were not ordered back to Constantinople but were sent to winter quarters in the Thrakesian theme. Ulf cursed loudly, he had looked forward to a season’s debauch, but Harald was not unhappy to be spared court expenses.
In the spring they were finally summoned back to Miklagardh. Any anger at Harald seemed forgotten, and his victories of the year before were rewarded with high honor. After long negotiation, the caliph in Egypt had finally agreed to let the Byzantines rebuild, in Jerusalem, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which the Moslems had destroyed twenty-five years ago. Harald and his corps would guard the artisans sent upon this sacred task.
He was less joyful than he dared admit. If he went in peace, there could be no gains of war and indeed he must make rich gifts to the shrines. Outwardly, of course, he could only bend the knee and kiss the Emperor’s ring in vast thankfulness.
Michael was growing ever more zealous to do holy works. All men knew he was haunted by the treachery and murder which gave him the throne. His flesh was wasting, he was often fevered, and the falling sickness smote him like God’s curse.
While he readied his folk for the trip, Harald learned from a Russian merchant that Svein Knutsson and his mother were thrown out of Norway. The boy Magnus Olafsson was now king. It had happened only a short time after Harald left Novgorod.
“So do you wish to go back and claim your share?” Ulf asked.
“Not yet,” said Harald. He paced the floor, restlessly. “Best to see how it goes for a while.”
And to win still more wealth, he thought, so that he might raise a goodly host on his return. He would never knuckle under to a beardless boy, not even to the son of Olaf. He bore too many plans in him for building the greatness of a backward country.
Presently he fared off to the Holy Land. The Moslem noblemen received him well during this truce. They were as interested in learning about him as he was in them. He visited the sacred sites, bathed in the Jordan and performed the pious work of helping clear out bandits from the pilgrim highways. That fall he returned to Constantinople with his fame richly grown.
The news from the North was that King Knut was dead, struck down by illness. Mstislav of Chernigov had also died and Jaroslav, his heir, now dwelt at Kiev to be nearer the heart of his enlarged realm.
So there was his greatest foe out of the way, and his greatest friend become a still more valuable ally. Time was working nobly for Harald Sigurdharson, he thought. He moved into a dwelling near the Brazen House and lived as quietly as a man of his standing could. Better to learn more of government than roister about with Ulf. He was often at court, being required to head the Varangians himself on any great occasion. When they had a tawny seven-foot prince in their lead, it doubled the Imperial splendor.
Indeed Michael needed bolstering. The old aristocracy sneered at him behind his back contemptuous of a Paphlagonian money changer squatting on the throne of Justinian! And his brother John was hated as much as feared; Harald remembered the lion tamer in the theater. Spies of the Orphanotrophos were in every corner. The Senate was filled with his creatures; all high offices went to his kinsmen. Of these, the best-known were: John’s brother, the eunuch Constantine, first made Duke of Antioch and then Grand Domestikos in the palace, almost as ruthless and adroit as the monk; his brother-in-law Stephen, a great epicure, grand admiral of the fleet; and Stephen’s son Michael, a good-looking, insolent young fellow who had a name for vigor and ability which Harald could not see was deserved. The Emperor Michael appointed him Caesar: colleague and heir apparent.
Admiral Stephen had begun life as humbly as the rest, a shipwright; hence his son was scornfully nicknamed Michael Calaphates, the Caulker. But this was not said aloud. No noble was safe. At the first whisper he was apt to be thrown in prison and his estates confiscated. Nor were the common folk much better off. Former Emperors had seen to their welfare, but Michael’s mind was wholly on his works of atonement. Moneylenders grew fat in the land, and the people began to know hunger.
That winter brought great whirls of hailstones, glinting out of the sky, ringing on coppered roofs, breaking windows and even knocking men senseless. On several nights heaven was full of falling stars. From the provinces came word of earthquakes, pestilence and famine. Folk muttered that God was scourging a land that tolerated a murderer on its throne.
Early in spring the Varangians, along with Greek troops, were ordered on a long sweep into Armenia, where there was border trouble, and then down into Syria. They fought several battles with good gain. What happened after one such dwelt long in Harald’s memory.
Clotted with flies, the dead lay thick in a trampled grainfield, under an unmercifully hot sky. Harald and Ulf sat mounted, overlooking the scene. Some enemy leaders had been captured in the final charge of the cataphracts and their chief was now led forward. He was a young man, dressed like an Arab but with Grecian features, and he walked haughtily.
“Get someone who knows the heathen tongue,” said Harald. “I would question him.”
“That will not be needful, kyrios,” said the prisoner. “I am Roman born.”
Harald shifted in the saddle. The man’s eyes challenged him. “Who are you, then?”
“I am Ibrahim … but once they called me Doukas Dalassenos.”
That made him a member of a great family. “And you betrayed your Emperor?” said Harald. He spat. “There is a word for you.”
Doukas smiled without mirth. “Also a treatment. What will it be, death or blinding and gelding?”
“I know not. Nor do I care. You will go back for judgment.”
“Easy enough for you, kyrios, who wields a sword for pay. I asked to be posted on this border because I had a country and a faith to defend.”
“Why did you forsake them?”
“When a traitor sits the throne, puppet of a Paphlagonian eunuch? Do you know how much of the people’s treasure goes into his coffers, Varangian? I had a brother whom I loved. He spoke one idle word about the matter. John heard of it. My brother died as no one would kill a beast. Then I went over to the Saracens.” Doukas turned away. “Enough,” he said harshly.
Harald grew still. Were not the bonds of blood holy? But … “Take him away,” he said at length. “Let me not see him again.”
Afterward he sat staring at emptiness. How the sun glimmered! Sweat soaked his underpadding. The flies buzzed and buzzed.
“We hire out for an ill work,” said Ulf.
“I gave my oath,” said Harald angrily.
“Not that it’s any affair of ours if the Emperor lets his folk fall into the claws of the usurers. It’s not our best men who are being gnawed away. Nonetheless … John …” Ulf’s broad brown face turned dreamy. “How would you like to join me and a hot iron someday in making a memorial inscription? ‘Ulf Uspaksson raised this in memory of himself, that Ulf who was in Miklagardh with Harald Sigurdharspn. Thor hallow these runes’ … in burnt leather on the buttocks of an Orphanotrophos.”
“The thought has its merits,” agreed Harald.
4
After wintering again in Constantinople, the Varangians were ordered that spring to sail for Italy.
There had been war in Sicily between two Saracen chieftains, brothers. The Byzantines had become allies of one, so successfully that the alarmed rivals made a reconciliation against them. This seemed a good moment to attack the island, regaining it for Christendom and ending the corsair raids based upon it. Georgios Maniakes, now commanding the Italian troops of the Empire, was readying for that new war, and the Northmen were sent to join him.
Harald landed at Reggio Calabria and led an escort of his axmen toward headquarters. The city boiled with soldiers, men from every theme of the Empire and mercenaries from a dozen other nations. Here a Greek officer rode by, arrogant in gilt armor, the lances of his guards nodding behind him; there a scarred Catalan grinned and snatched at a girl on the arm of a bearded Bulgar, suddenly knives were out and the girl screamed avidly; nearby a legless beggar whined appeal to a turbaned Persian who damned him for a Nazarene—bustle and clamor, clashing metal and bawling voices, heavy feet. The town bristled with weaponed men. Out in the harbor, ships lay jammed together. At their backs rose the mountains of Sicily, blue menace across the straits.
Harald entered a palace scarred and littered by the haste of war and found the chamber where Georgios was. The Greek looked wearily up from his endless papers. “Oh, Captain Araltes. Enter, be seated, we’ve much to talk about.” Three years had changed him little, he was still a short-spoken stout man in peasantish garments, a sword belted at his waist even as he sat.
Harald lowered his bulk to a chair that creaked under him. “My folk are marching to quarters … kyrios.”
Georgios watched him for a long minute. “Think you we can work together better this time than last?”
“The ground may not be so marshy here,” said Harald.
Georgios chuckled. “Oh, I’ll unleash you when I can, but first we must seize Messina. Once we have that for a port, we can spread out. I must own that the records of your campaigns make good reading.” He bridged his fingers and stared intently across them. “I want you to lead not only your own corps, but three hundred Norman mercenaries. Know you the Frankish tongue?’
“No, but I can learn the needful words soon enough. ‘Up on your feet, soldier! Forward! About face! Stand where you are or I’ll see your liver!’”
Georgios nodded. “You’ll need such phrases. The Normans are a wild and filthy folk. Stand ready to cuff them down, they are used to stern overlords at home.”
“When shall we cross over to Messina?”
“In two or three weeks, however long we need to make ready. I’ll have you in later with our other captains to hammer out the plans. Meanwhile, go arrange for the Normans to be quartered and drilled with your Varangians.” Georgios went into details. Having ended his explanation, he asked, “Do you understand? Good day, then.” Immediately he returned to his paperwork.
Harald went out and sought the Norman chief. Odo Fitz Maurice sat in a house drinking with a dozen cronies. They had nearly wrecked the place, tapestries hung ragged and tables were hacked and a peacock mosaic had been used for crossbow practice. Guards in hauberk and long surcoats admitted Harald, who ducked his head as he came into the dining hall.
Odo glanced about. He was a lean, richly clad man, his black hair cropped short and shaven at the back, his features hard and blue-chinned. “Well, a giant to add to the circus!” he said in broken Greek.
“Speak more respectfully.” Harald tossed the parchment given him by Georgios onto the table. “I am your new captain. There are the orders.”
“So.” Odo studied him for a space. A drunken mumble ran among his fellows.
“We had best talk of this,” said Harald mildly.
“Quite so.” Odo’s tone was sour. “Be seated.”
Harald cocked his left brow still higher. “I belong at the head of the table,” he said. His backbone prickled.
Odo made some remark in French. His men guffawed.
“That will do!” Harald stepped over in one stride, seized Odo and lifted him in the air. A moment he held the squirming, cursing man aloft, then flung him to the floor and sat down in his chair.
Odo leaped up, spitting like a cat. A dagger flamed in his hand. The other Normans were on their feet, roaring. Harald stared at him. “Be seated,” he said.
“You whoreson outlander!” Odo sprang. Harald snatched a massive silver goblet from the table and hurled it with deadly aim. Odo went down with a smashed nose, his face one mask of blood.
Harald drew his sword and struck the table with the flat so wood and metal boomed. “Before God, I am the chief here!” he bellowed. “Does anyone else care to dispute it?”
Still he remained seated, but they remembered his height and drew back, snarling at him. “Who is the next in command among you?” he barked.
“I … I am,” said one unsurely.
“Then you are in charge, under me. Odo what’s-his-name will mend his ways on bread and water until we sail. The next such insubordination means a beheading.” Harald put the horn at his hip to his mouth and blew.
His escort shoved in past the sentries, axes aloft, grinning at the Normans. Harald jerked a thumb toward the half-conscious Odo. “Put that dog in irons, Ulf. And now, friends, shall we talk of plans?”
Thereafter the Normans obeyed him. When next he saw Georgios, the Archestrategos remarked, “I heard how you tamed your wolf pack. You like not mutiny, do you?”
“Indeed not,” said Harald.
“Suppose I had tried to so likewise to you, three years ago?”
“Well, kyrios, you did not.”
Georgios laughed.