“Gorm!” I called out in reply. Glum’s brother, my one friend among the Varangians, trotted over to me. He was carrying his two-handled axe on his shoulder and his scarlet shield slung on his back.
“How goes it, friend Odd?”
“Not so well.”
“Oh?” He looked genuinely sorry. “Well, this should cheer you up. We’re on parade today, put on a real show for our Roman masters. Stand over here, you’ll see everything.”
The polo ground, situated in the middle of the palace grounds, was a wide field, bordered by a palisade. Once earlier, I had seen a team of Khazar horse archers playing against another cavalry regiment, thundering up and down on their ponies, swinging long mallets. But today the space was filled with infantry, both Varangians and other palace regiments—the Manglabitai, the Kandidatoi, the Noumeri and Teichistai—all fitted out in their bronze corselets and plumed helmets and uniforms or white, red and blue—marshalled rank by rank, performing their exercises.
On every side banners flew—one of them, the dragon-headed standard of the Varangians with its long streaming tail. Harald could be seen, and heard, some distance away bawling orders at his bandon as they charged, swung their axes, wheeled, and charged again. His men were the best-looking troops on the field, no question. Senior army officers stood on the reviewing stand along one side, applauding them. It was a sight to stir the heart. How I wished I were one of them, with the haft of an axe in my hand, charging, shouting, feeling the blood pounding in my head. Odin! It had been too long, too long. Suddenly, my cares came rushing back. No more for me the warrior’s life. I remembered with a pang how years before I had watched Harald marshal Yaroslav’s druzhina for our expedition against the Pechenegs. I was his skald then, his second in command. But now, landless, shipless, friendless, who would take me on? I turned to go.
“Tangle-Hair, stop, damn it.” Harald waved a long arm at me. “Gorm said you were here. We’ll talk, don’t go away.”
Well, what else did I have to do? I stayed and watched for a half hour more and was rewarded by an interesting sight: Harald in an angry shouting match with another Varangian. This man was old, his white whiskers spread over an enormous belly, and he limped on a crutch. His clothes were very fine and he wore a golden torque around his fat neck. I remembered Stavko had told me that the Commandant of the Guard was one Sveinn Gudleifsson, a gouty old fellow who enjoyed his pampered life in the city and was apt to resent an ambitious young upstart like Harald. It seemed likely that this was him. It wasn’t clear what their quarrel was about, but both of them were red in the face. It took three or four other Varangians to pull them apart. Soon after, the parade disbanded and Sveinn stumped off.
I made my way over toward Harald, where he stood surrounded by his men. I pulled him aside and, before he could say anything, began the speech I’d been rehearsing for the past few minutes. “You said the other day that you had an idea how I can help you. You’d better tell me now for in another day I will be gone from here. I’ve been exposed and banned from the palace. The only bright spot in the whole mess is the embarrassment this is going to cause Inge. You should appreciate that. Yelisaveta’s yours for the taking. But if you have anything for me, say it now.”
“Walk with me, Tangle-Hair.” We made our way to the Brazen Gate, the imposing complex of gates and guardhouses that forms the ceremonial entranceway to the Great Palace. “The Fourth Bandon is on guard duty this week,” he said. “We have our quarters here with a private office for the captain, which is me. We’ll take lunch there.”
He sat facing me over a basket of bread and cheese and a bottle of wine. “I’ve neglected you. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. I thought we had more time.”
He frowned for a moment in thought and stroked his long moustaches. Every time I saw him he looked less like the overgrown boy—the ‘unnatural weed’—that I remembered from Gardariki. “Let’s get one thing clear, Tangle-Hair. I will need to trust you absolutely. I could ask you swear an oath on some saint’s relic but we both know that would be pointless in your case. No, you must become my skald again, my poet, my advisor, my go-between. No need for you to be a Varangian, this is a personal bond, it’s nothing to do with the regiment. I once gave you an arm ring. D’you remember?”
How well I did! Seven, almost eight, years ago. We sat in Jarl Rognvald’s hall in Aldeigjuborg. Harald with his mentor, Dag, and all their men. I alone, estranged from my crew. Harald, only sixteen, had fled from Norway and was on his way to Novgorod to enlist under Yaroslav and plot to regain his brother Olaf’s throne. Dag urged me to join them, to help him control this bumptious young prince. And I agreed. We spent the night drinking and swapping lines of poetry and, at the end of it, Harald gave me an arm ring, sliding it from the tip of his sword to the tip of mine in the old viking fashion.
“What’s become of it?” he asked.
“I threw it away.”
He coughed and looked away. “Yes, well, maybe you had reason, let’s not go into that again. But we’ll start fresh. Things will be different this time, you’ll see.”
“What is it that you need me for so badly? You said something about my speaking Greek for you. They have interpreters in the Office of Barbarians, why don’t you send for one of them?”
“Because I prefer them not to know my business.”
“Well, who are you talking to?”
He shook his head. “First the ring. And, as long as you’re my man, Tangle-Hair,” he spoke slowly, underlining each word, “you have nothing to fear from Halldor or Bolli or anyone else. Do you understand me?” Without waiting for a reply, he went out into the day room and ordered in half-a-dozen of his men, who were lounging there. In their presence we went through the ceremony, with all the high-flown words about honor and good faith and the bond between warlord and skald. And all I could think of was that other time: the heat of the wine, the warriors banging their sword hilts on the tables, and the rush of hope, promise, and honor between two young men in love with poetry and adventure.
There was none of that now. Now there was only cold calculation. I was no longer being paid to kill Harald and had, frankly, lost the urge. Too much else was crowding in on my mind. Not that we would ever be friends, but possibly we could work together for our mutual advantage. If not, I could always leave. Harald took a ring from his arm, a heavy silver one with twisting serpents around it, and I put it on. The onlookers murmured their congratulations without much enthusiasm, except for Gorm who gave me a bone-crushing squeeze on my sore shoulder.
“Have they thrown you out of the ambassadors’ hostel?” Harald asked me when we were alone again. “Stay here, if you like.”
“Thanks, but maybe we shouldn’t be seen together too much.”
“You’re right, as usual. But be here when I need you. Here,” he pushed a bag of coins toward me. “If you’re not on Inge’s payroll anymore then you will be on mine. Mind you, I’m not as rich as she is—not yet. Find yourself someplace to live. I’m told there are nice properties out by the ring wall in the Lycos valley. Open country—have you been out there?—very pretty. Have a bit of a garden, buy a horse. We’re country boys, you and I, Odd, not like these citified Greeks.”
I emptied the coins into my purse. “Thanks, I’ll have a look round. When will you need me?”
“Tomorrow night if I can arrange things.”
“And can I ask now who I’m translating for?”
“All in good time, my friend.” He grinned and would say no more.
The Orphanage of Saint Paul, which stood on the acropolis north of the palace, consisted of several old brick buildings and a church, arranged around a courtyard and surrounded by a fence. The courtyard was littered with untidy piles of lumber and stone; there was an untended garden where a little grass struggled to survive. Inside, it stank of cabbage and despair. It was past sundown when Harald and I arrived, both of us wearing dark cloaks and hoods. I felt faintly ridiculous; we’d probably attract more attention than otherwise costumed like this, but it appealed to Harald. We were met at the entrance by a lank-haired, pinch-faced young man with a patch over one eye and a missing front tooth. He said his name was Loucas and informed us that he was the Senior Orphan.
“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 longer 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.”