Our ships sailed into Boukoleon harbor on a brilliant morning, just as the rising sun struck fire from the gilded domes of the Great Palace. Harald had sent a small boat ahead to announce our arrival, and a platoon of Varangians was drawn up on the quay to welcome us. They had brought wagons to take our baggage, and especially our money chests, straight to the barracks. Word of our approach had spread fast and already a noisy crowd of palace officials, dock workers, and passers-by had gathered. I searched their faces. No Selene. No Psellus.
Led by Harald and Halldor carrying the dragon standard, we shouldered our axes and marched down the gangway in perfect order. Then order dissolved as we mingled with old comrades, slapping backs and pumping arms. Some men kissed the ground.
“Tangle-Hair,” shouted Harald over the uproar, “I’m going to the orphanage to meet with John and his brothers. I’ll need you.”
“I’m going to look for my wife,” I said over my shoulder and, handing my ax and shield to Gorm, walked away from him.
The sun was near its zenith by the time I had rented a horse and ridden out along the Mese to the little cluster of houses near the Gate of Charisios. The day was turning hot and I sweated in my armor. The yard was unkempt, our little garden overgrown with weeds. There was no answer to my knock. One or two neighbors stopped to gawk at me in my mail shirt and helmet and scarlet cloak; none of them came near. I pushed open the door and found myself in an empty room that smelled of mildew, the chairs tipped up against the table. In one corner, Gunnar’s baby cradle, the one I had carved for him, sat covered with dust. Of course, she’s at her father’s. I ran the short distance to Melampus’s house. But here too was only dust. The sitting room, the laboratory, deserted.
“It’s me,” I called. “Melampus, Selene?” No answer. And then, as I was turning in bafflement to leave, I heard the chattering of a monkey coming from the kitchen. Ramesses in his tattered yellow coat. He scampered out and leapt into my arms. A moment later, Martha, Melampus’s old housekeeper, peered at me from the doorway.
“Master Odd! Is it you? Oh, sir, it is good to see you.” Tears started in her eyes. “The doctor? He died in April, God bless his soul. Selene? Gone with that man, Alypius. Her and Gunnar. I am sorry, master, I begged her not to, but she wouldn’t listen. It’s the money, you see. After the doctor died, we hadn’t any, not a brass penny, except what she got from that man. The poor girl had no choice. They left me here—he said he had a houseful of servants and I was too old and useless. And Ramesses? He said he couldn’t abide the filthy beast. Oh, how little Gunnar cried at that. I thought his little heart’d break. Mistress left me with a few coins and said she’d come back, but she hasn’t, and they’re all gone now. So here we’ve stayed on our own these three months with not a bite to eat but what a kind neighbor can spare.”
I was carrying a small parcel—a bracelet and cameo brooch for my wife and a book for Melampus—it fell to the floor unnoticed.
“Who is this man? Where does he live?”
“A rich man, an architect, handsome enough, smooth ways about him. Lives in the city, but where? They never said. Oh, I am that sorry, master Odd.”
I pressed some silver into her hand. “Live on this until I come back.”
I leapt on my mount and kicked it savagely to a gallop. Somewhere in this vast city is my wife. Psellus will know. He cuts off her money, passes her onto some rich friend of his. He knows where they are. I’ll beat it out of him.
But when I pounded on Psellus’s door—it was evening now—a strange man’s face appeared, fear in his eyes. “Doesn’t live here anymore … sold this place, oh, months ago. Where? No idea. Don’t murder us, sir, I beg you.”
I backed away, stumbling out into the shadowed street. A scream rose in my throat. I didn’t mean to, but I opened my mouth and let it out—the howl of an animal, long and high and piercing. All along the street shutters opened and then banged shut.
After that, I scarcely knew where I went. I came to a tavern where I drank a jug of wine, and then another. Finally, I threw down some coins and stumbled out. I was too drunk to ride the horse. I left it tied up. Eventually, I found my way to the Varangian barracks and managed the stairs to the second landing—the Fourth Bandon’s quarters. Harald was still up, drinking with some of the men. He eyed me coldly.
“Goddammit, Tangle-Hair, where the hell have you been all day? I had a meeting with John. Wanted to talk about Italy and about me being Commandant, but that’s about as much as I could understand. We had to put it off to tomorrow. You can’t do this to me.”
I simply stood speechless, feeling all their eyes on me. One of them was Halldor, and I thought I saw a look in his eye that I would remember later—like a man suddenly struck by an idea. “Go to bed,” Harald said, “you look like shit. We’ll talk in the morning.”
But long before Harald was awake, I was gone. To the palace. I hadn’t slept all night, and I was past caring if John’s spies saw me talking to Psellus, that little traitor.
I burst into his office—oh, what a splendid one he had now—shoved the doorkeeper aside and went straight for him. “Tell me where she is.”
“Tangle—!”
His eyes bulged, I had him by the throat, pinned against the wall. Two guards ran in with their swords drawn.
“No, don’t hurt him,” he croaked, “leave us, it’s—it’s all right.” They looked doubtful but backed out. “Odd, let me go—please.” I took a step back. Psellus rubbed his throat, red and white from my fingers. “Sit down, for God’s sake. We thought you were dead.”
“So it seems. Where’s this man you gave my wife to?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear to you. No, don’t touch your sword, please. Calm yourself, let us talk. It … it’s good to see you.” He shut his office door, smoothed his clothing, and with a shaking hand poured wine into two goblets. “Here—and please sit down. There, that’s better.”
I sank into a chair, suddenly overcome with weariness, and accepted the proffered goblet from this man who had betrayed me. It is my failing, that I don’t kill the people who have wronged me. There is some weakness in me. I’m not my father’s son. Black Thorvald would have cut his heart out and roasted it.
“Selene’s gone?” he said.
“With your rich friend Alypius. Why did you cut off her money? Why have there been no letters from her for two years?”
“I don’t know any Alypius. And as for the money, that’s a bitter tale.” He told me in a few words how the Guardian of Orphans had cut their budget, got rid of their couriers, was now behaving like Emperor in all but name, with Michael sick in Thessaloniki.
“But you’ve done well for yourself.” I glanced around his spacious office. “New house, too, I gather.”
He gave an apologetic smile and a small shrug. “Odd, how can I help you?”
“Where do I find this man? Rich, an architect. That’s all I know.”
“First of all, there are laws against murder in this city. You do know that, don’t you? Second of all, I don’t know who he is, but I can probably find out. The rich are few enough even in this great metropolis, and there can’t be so many architects. I venture I’ll know someone who knows someone who knows him. It may take a while. Patience isn’t one of your virtues, but try. In the meantime we have serious matters to discuss with the Logothete.”
“I have nothing to discuss with the Logothete. I don’t need him. Here’s a piece of information you can have for free. Harald is about to be named Commandant of the Guard and I’m to be a Varangian. All thanks to John, not the Logothete.”
Psellus sank back in his chair and sighed. “Understand this, Odd. John has the whip hand now, but that can’t last. There will be a turning point soon—very soon. When it comes, you need to be on the right side.”
“Thank you, but from now on I’ll decide for myself which is the right side. All I want now is my wife back.”
Psellus shook his head. “You aren’t the same man who sailed away two years ago. I liked that man better. What have you been through?”
“What do you know about war outside the pages of Homer? Believe me, my friend, it is much nastier than that. Much crueler. And not heroic at all. That’s what I’ve been through.”
He waved this aside. “I will tell the Logothete that you’re back, he’ll be relieved. We need you with us, Odd. None of this was his fault, believe me. We’ll be in touch with you. And I will find your wife for you, count on it. In the meantime, by all means stick close to Harald, translate for him and John—most important thing you can do for us.”
I gave him a hard look, and left without saying another word.
On Harald’s handsome face was a look of triumph, of exultation—the lips curved in a fierce smile, the head high, the eyes on fire—the look of a man who, after seven long years of waiting and plotting, has finally gotten his reward, finally clawed his way to that pinnacle of power that he had always lusted for. Standing at his elbow, John the Guardian of Orphans was smiling too, and for the same reason. These were now the two most powerful men in the empire.
John had organized this ceremony to create three hundred new Varangians, myself among them, to make up for our losses in the Sicilian campaign, and to appoint Harald as the new Commandant. Harald now held the exalted dignity of protospatharios and was given the added post of manglabites, with powers to arrest and imprison, even to have a ring of keys that unlocked the palace gates. Nothing was beyond his reach now—the salary, the bribes, the favors—a bottomless river of gold. Not bad for a man who could barely order a glass of wine in the native language. He stood in the middle of the great hall, resplendent in his scarlet costume and jeweled collar, drinking in the applause of the gathered functionaries, while we Varangians, ranged in a semi-circle around the throne, clashed our axes against our shields.
The organ thundered, the Master of Ceremonies called out our names, the golden lions roared and lashed their tails, the jeweled birds sang, the throne (whose mechanism still mystified me) rose and descended—but with one striking difference: sitting upon it was not the Emperor, but a pimply-faced boy, wearing a set of robes a size too big for him and a diadem that only his ears held up. Our new Caesar, we were informed by John—his nephew, and next in line to the throne, whenever God should see fit to take poor, ailing Michael up to heaven. Before a few weeks ago almost no one at court even knew who this young man was. But then John had organized an investiture ceremony at which, shockingly, the youth was made to sit on Zoe’s lap.
Now, surrounded by guards and an immense throng of courtiers, the boy looked glassy-eyed. Was he thrilled by all this or simply terrified? Beside him, Zoe sat still as a statue, her eyes half-shut, revealing nothing.
Besides the Emperor’s there was one other notable absence—George Maniakes. A name not to be uttered now. He was, in fact, not very far away, in a narrow, airless cell in the bowels of the palace. I wondered if he could feel the distant reverberation of the organ, hear the clashing of our shields, the shouted acclamations. Harald, who was his jailer now, had gone to see him that morning, and I, of course, went along to translate.
Harald held his lantern to the general’s face. Maniakes threw his arm over his eyes and shrank away. After four months of captivity, the great man was nothing but bone, his cheeks hollow, his hair gray at the roots (I always suspected he dyed it). He wore leg irons and an iron band around his waist with a chain fastened to the wall. His clothes hung in rags from his great frame.
“Have you come to kill me?” The old thunderous voice was now a whisper.
“Not today.”
“When?”
Harald shrugged. That wasn’t up to him. Maniakes could be executed tomorrow, or he could lose his nose and ears and be banished to an island, or he could just be left to rot in this cell forever. John would decide.
But if this man should ever be uncaged, I wondered, what violence was he not capable of? What retribution?
Maniakes turned his face to me with a flicker of a smile. “Good to see you on your feet, Odd Tangle-Hair.”
I nodded. “It’s a pity to see you like this, General.”
“Do you want a priest?” Harald asked him sharply.
Maniakes shook his head, no.
“Stephen’s dead, you know.”
“Good.”
There was no more to say, really. We left him.
The ceremony ended and the hall began to empty. You may wonder what thoughts were in my mind at that moment. Someday, I said to myself, Harald will go back to Norway and again there will be room at the top. If Harald could reach so high, why not me? But did I want it badly enough to seize it with both hands, to lick some eunuch’s ass for it, to kill for it? Stop it, I told myself. All that is too far away; for a while just be content with what you have. But, of course, I wasn’t content. My heart ached.
And then, as we were marching out, Psellus appeared at my side. I hadn’t even known he was there. “Congratulations, Varangian. I’ve kept my promise.” He came close and tucked a scrap of parchment in my belt. “The directions to Alypius’s house. I wish you luck, I mean it. And in return I will want a favor from you one day.”
Before I could answer, he had slipped away into the crowd.