Varangian

Chapter 6

The long journey north The magnificent city of Constantinople, 1042.

“We need more men,” said Ulf, letting out his breath in a blast as he lowered the large box onto the stone floor of the quayside. Immediately, Haldor sat down on the box and leaned forward, putting his face into his hands. Ulf slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Feeling like death, old friend?”

Haldor barely looked up. “Only when you are here.”

Ulf chuckled. “Nice to see you"re still in a good mood. Well,” he glanced towards his other companion who stood like a great tree, solid, inscrutable, “what say you?”

The port lay still and quiet, the only sound water gently lapping against the harbour walls, the occasional clink of coiled chains waiting for the return of ships. The endless blue stretched out towards the horizon, sea merging into sky. Empty. The eye of the world made blind.

Distant voices travelled across the quayside from far away. The city licked its wounds from the recent battle, soldiers and citizens alike mourning the fallen and the occasional wail reminding them all of how terrible the fight had been. But to Ulf"s question, no answer came.

Harald Hardrada shifted his broad shoulders, turned and studied his older companion for a moment. Hardrada nevertheless looked every inch the veteran warrior, aged before his years. A young man in his mid-twenties, many believed him older, a lifetime of adventures having hardened his body to the consistency of seasoned oak. Enormous in stature, the muscles in his arms bulged like pieces of thick, coarse rope. He wore a simple hauberk of chainmail over a white, red-trimmed tunic and rough leggings lashed around the calves with leather thongs. He held a large two-headed axe in his fist, and a sheathed sword dangled from the broad leather waist belt. Tangled hair hung loose, draping over his face, caught by the breeze, ignored, eyes deep in thought. When he at last spoke, his voice sounded heavy and tired. “This is not good. I had hoped that at least one ship might be here, but for there to be nothing…” He turned again to survey the empty quayside. The port of Constantinople, one of the greatest cities on earth, usually teaming with life, ships coming and going from every corner of the world, dockworkers scurrying backwards and forwards, off-loading the merchandise from a hundred different lands. Grain and spices, silks and linen. Olive oil, fruit and vegetables. Gemstones, ore and flax, all of it maintaining the most magnificent Empire known to man. Constantine the Great"s city, New Rome, capital of the world silenced by the excesses of a mad Emperor, overthrown and blinded before being banished. “Where by Odin"s beard have they all gone?”

“Probably got wind of the trouble. You know what these effete seamen are like,” Ulf chuckled again, walked over, and stood beside his friend. “Harald. We are not going to leave this day. Perhaps not for many days.”

“Damn your eyes, Ulf, if we don"t…” His voice trailed away, leaving thoughts unspoken.

Ulf, ever the prophet of doom, said, “What, the Lady Zoe will have your balls?”

“Aye, she will at that. Yours too, perhaps.” He sighed again. “We"ll all feel her wrath, in some way.”

“Leave me out of this,” shouted Haldor from his seat on the box, “I never coupled with her.”

“Not for want of trying,” grinned Ulf. His features soon changed, becoming serious. “We need men, Harald. A lot of men, if we are to break through the chains which protect the harbour and sail north. That is what you"re thinking, yes?” Hardrada grunted. “Perhaps we could send out word, hire mercenaries?”

Hardrada shook his head. “I need loyal, willing warriors to follow me, not craven purse-robbers. My cause is just and I want them by my side because they accept me as king, not because I fill their pockets with Byzantine gold.” He shook his head. “No, they will come when I call – they are Varangian Norse.” He slapped his thigh. “I haven"t travelled this far to be denied because of the fear and cowardice of others. Damn these Greeks; always looking out for themselves, thinking of ways to make more money. News of Michael"s fall will have travelled to every corner of this creaking Empire and men will be looking farther afield to swear their allegiances now they think Byzantium is weak and leaderless.”

“Which it is.”

“Not for long, I"ll wager. Maniakes no doubt has it all worked out.” He pressed his fingers into his eyes for a few seconds before turning to Ulf. “We"ll go back to the city. I"ll talk to Maniakes, come up with some sort of deal. He needs me, needs all of us. With the Scythians gone, the city is left undefended.”

“He has the Varangians, Harald. The City Guard too. Maniakes is a viper, you know that more than anyone. He will do whatever he can to keep himself in power, and he sees you as a threat, an obstacle to his ambition.”

“No,” Hardrada shook his head again, “he needs us, Ulf. He knows I command the respect of the Norse and will want me to lead the Varangians, return them to their former glory. Not as mercenaries, but as loyal soldiers to the Senate and Emperor, whoever that might be. Once we have established order, we will leave. Not as bandits, but as noble men.”

Haldor gave a cough before raising his voice. “In that case we will need to convince the General that your council is wise, and your honour absolute. Simple.” He laughed, a harsh snap that resounded loudly across the empty port. “That shouldn"t be too difficult for a man like him, a twisting, loathsome liar.”

Haldor hobbled across the stones to join them, hand clutching his side. He still suffered from his clash with the giant Scythian, Crethus. Harald studied the grimace set on his old friend"s face, the drawn, yellow flesh, and did not like what he saw. “What ails you, friend?”

Ulf sighed, “He caught a blow in the guts is all! For pity"s sake, man, get yourself some wine, have a lie down.”

Haldor ignored the barbed sarcasm and made a face at Hardrada. “Maniakes will not be easy to convince. You"ll need Alexius on your side. He trusts you, and what"s more he owes you.”

Hardrada knew this to be true. Certainly, to have such a strong ally, the Holy Patriarch of the city, to vouch for his sincerity would prove priceless. “Aye, you"re right. I"ll find a way to gain audience with him. He"ll understand, will want Zoe back on the throne, but at the same time require security. Something I can provide.” He reached out a hand and clutched Haldor"s arm. “More pressing is your need for rest, my friend. Where did he strike you?”

Haldor shook his head, “I"ll be fine, I just need a few moments, no more. Like Ulf says, perhaps some wine.”

“Where did he strike you?” repeated Hardrada, not wanting to keep the edge out of his voice. Haldor appeared weak, close to the edge of collapse, like a wet rag in Hardrada"s hand. The huge Viking did not believe he had ever seen his old friend so frail before. It worried him more than he dared admit.

Haldor looked from one Viking to the other and shrugged. He gingerly pulled up his thin, woollen jerkin to reveal a large, angry sword cut that ran across his right side, just under the ribs. The skin hung down in an ugly flap and the swollen, mottled blue and green bruising around the wound pulsed horribly. Blood and pus seeped from the large, oozing slice in slow, thick trails.

Ulf sucked in his breath whilst Hardrada spoke in a voice not much above a whisper. “You need that tended to. The wound is deep, and your ribs … they could be broken. If a bone has pierced your vitals…”

Haldor gritted his teeth and readjusted his jerkin. “I"ve had worse, I promise you. Like I said, just some rest is all I need.”

“You were always a stubborn oaf,” said Ulf, unable to keep the concern from his voice.

Haldor smiled at his old friend, but it froze on his face, as his eyes grew dark. “For the moment, I think we have other more pressing things to worry about.”

The others turned to look in the direction of Haldor"s gaze, towards the far end of the port.

Striding across the quay, a large group of fully armed Byzantine Royal Bodyguard marched in unison, their hobnailed boots crunching over the dressed stone, banners held aloft, bronze helmets glinting in the sun. At their head marched a young, resolute and determined-looking officer.

“Andreas,” Hardrada hissed as they drew closer and he gripped the shaft of his axe as the ice ran through him and settled in the pit of his stomach.