TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn (13 page)

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In the spring of Anno Domini 1040, Georgios Maniakes got word that an army was bound from Africa to wrest Sicily back for the emirs. That was not unexpected, and his own preparations were soon made. The Greeks marched to the coast and halted at Draginas, whither their scouting boats told them the enemy fleet was bound.

Harald was at the final conference. Officers crowded Georgios' pavilion, filling the air with their sweat. Georgios leaned on a table littered with maps, snapping orders at one after another of his men.

His gaunted, unshaven face turned to Stephen, the Emperor's brother-in-law, grand admiral of the fleet. The navy had had an easy time hitherto, and Stephen was pouting at having been dragged from his vintages and larks' tongues in Messina. "Now, despotes," said Georgios, "as I've explained, with God's help we shall drive the infidels back into the sea. But if then they escape in their ships, this work must all be done over. It would be too dangerous to attack them from the water, with the reefs hereabouts. But if you stand guard and meet them as they get clear, still confused, their array unformed . . . you can cut them off and sink every last tubful!"

Stephen wiped his plump wet face with a perfumed scarf. "Easier said than done," he sulked. "They could sail around us."

Georgios brough his fist down so the table jumped. "By St. Demetrios and all angels! What's a navy for? You have twice their numbers, you can box them against the land. A sea breeze will push them back toward us, an offshore wind drive them into your arms." He curbed himself, resorting to irony. "Surely, despotes, a commander of your rare gifts can see many ways to which I am blind, for ending this campaign at one stroke."

Stephen said nothing to that. Harald wondered if he paid any heed to Georgios' discourse on tactics.

The next morning the two armies met. The Saracens were a good-sized host, splashing through the shallows and charging ashore with an inhuman screech. No few Christians were daunted. Harald was not. His victorious years had given him a belief that Olaf the Stout watched over him from Heaven and his life would not end until his work was done. He led his Varangians stolidly through their own battle task. Amidst a clanging and belling of metal they rolled back the enemy line. There was a butcher's time, then Georgios' schemes bore fruit. The foe crumpled, broke up into knots and single men, and fled.

They had brave rear guards, who died in their red
footprints but held off the Imperialists long enough for the rest, still a large army, to board their ships and put to sea.

Harald stood on a high ridge, looking over the waters. Oars threshed, sails rattled loose, the galleys milled about. Beyond the reefs, the Byzantine fleet waited. But Harald frowned. "Our ships are not well ordered," he said.

Ulf nodded. "That's what comes of putting a fat wine bibber in command. Let's hope the harm he does is not too great."

They watched, and as day declined they saw the enemy break past with small trouble, assume formation, and slip over the horizon. The Byzantine dromonds wallowed in pursuit for a while, but were outdistanced and must crawl back.

"Let's return to camp," said Harald bleakly. "I'm fain to see what Gyrgi does about this."

Again officers crowded the pavilion. They shifted on their feet, unspeaking, numbed by their losses. Georgios entered, a javelin in one hand. Lamplight shimmered off the mail shirt and helmet he still wore. Not often had Harald seen a mouth turned down so bitterly. He seated himself behind his table and drummed with his fingers. That was the only noise.

After a very long while, Stephen entered. The admiral had delayed to bathe and change into silken raiment. He paused a moment under their eyes, then took a chair before the Archestrategos. Georgios said never a word.

"Well
..."
Stephen cleared his throat.

"Be silent, caulker!" Georgios spat. "Men died today to win what you lost again."

Stephen flushed. "It was God's will," he mumbled.

"God's will my arse! It was your cowardice and incompetence, as well you know. Now we must await a fresh invasion."

Stephen rose, trembling. "That's enough!" he shrieked. "I'll thank you to remember, you, I am His Sacred Majesty's kinsman, and you can address me with respect. If I hear any more of your insolence
..."

Georgios rasped in his throat, leaped to his feet, and brought the javelin down. Its butt cracked against Stephen's head. The admiral staggered.

A moan went among the packed nobles. Georgios dropped his weapon, recalling whom he had struck. Pride kept him stiff and glaring.

Stephen wobbled about, mopping the blood from his scalp with the scented scarf. "Rebellion," he whispered. "So you rebel against God's anointed, Maniakes. They'll hear of this at court."

He swept out into darkness. Georgios stood a while longer before he said, "Dismissed."

One by one they left him. Harald wanted very much to speak to him, but he could think of no words.

The army returned to Messina, marching as if it had lost the battle. Georgios shut himself up with his work, Stephen in his house. Time would be needed for the dispatch ships to get to Constantinople and back. Meanwhile life went on, after a fashion.

"What will come of this?" Harald asked Nicephorus.

The older man spread
his hands. "What think you?
Maniakes will be imprisoned, perhaps executed
." "But he was in the right!"

"Most certainly. The fact remains, however, that he struck the Emperor's kinsman. Even had John no care for his own family, this could not be suffered. Our Emperors never forget how insecurely they hold the throne, how many revolts have been raised among the great nobles."

"Gyrgi should rebel. By Gabriel's pinfeathers, I'd join him!"

"Maniakes sets the Empire above himself, Araltes."

So long did the waiting become that anger was spent and men accepted drearily what was foredoomed. Georgios was deposed, to be taken back under arrest. It was the further order that brought Harald to his feet with a curs
e. Stephen was now com
mander of the Sicilian forces.

But, God be thanked, the Varangians were summoned home. This island was now believed firmly held, while fresh troubles were arising everywhere else in the Empire. The Northmen embarked gleefully, not just because they longed for the fleshpots of Constantinople but because they would not have to serve under Stephen the Caulker. Nicephorus Skleros returned with them, vowing he would hereafter stay among his books and have no more to do with a corrupted age.

Georgios
Maniakes was fortunate: he was jailed but not mutilated. Otherwise the news that year was altogether evil. Stephen's dominion fell swiftly apart; fresh hosts from Africa ate up the land again, until only Messina remained of all the Sicilian conquests.

Serbia rose in revolt against the taxes John had imposed, and won an independence the Empire dared not contest. For the great Bulgarian provinces seethed with the same spirit; tax collectors and soldiers were murdered; the cities were full of plots and the hills full of armed men.

Harald paid scant heed. He had suddenly gotten something else to think about.

VII

How Harald Was Betrothed

1

Upon the Norse prince, when the Varangians came back, the Emperor bestowed the high title of Manglabites. Thereafter Michael removed himself to the shrine of St. Demetrios in Thessalonica for ever more frantic prayers; he was becoming dropsical. Zoe remained in Constantinople. She had begun finally to show her age, turning fat and gray and religious.

Harald found himself with little to do but manage palace guards. He was more pleased than he would have admitted when an invitation came to visit Nicephorus Skleros. He dressed with care, though in Western rather than Eastern style: white linen shirt, gold-embroidered coat, scarlet hose, blue cloak lined with sable, rings on his fingers; a Persian slave accompanied him, bearing his gift of an antique calyx that he had brought from Syracuse. Their horses clopped through long
sunset light, into the Blacher
nae quarter where Nicephorus dwelt.

The nobleman's house, was small, a porticoed building amidst a walled garden. The hillcrest on which it sat commanded a view of the city's endless
flat roofs, gleaming domes and mask-raked vapors aglow in the Golden Horn. Nicephorus received Harald in an airy, simply furnished atrium; his plain white cope suggested a toga. ""Welcome, Araltes!" He pressed the Norseman's big hand. "It was good of you to come. The first of many such occasions, I trust."

They exchanged gifts. Nicephorus offered a costly dagger which Harald refrained from saying looked like poor steel. "Another time I should like you to meet some of my friends," the Byzantine said. "I have not many, but some few are worth knowing, men who talk honestly, though
..."
He paused shyly. "I spoke so much of you to my wife and daughter that they wished to make your acquaintance themselves, which they could scarcely do when decorum binds them in company. I thought we would dine as one family tonight."

Thor help me, Harald groaned to himself. The lowborn women of the city he liked, even those he got no chance to tumble; they were often cocky and
quick-witted
. The veiled and secluded noble ladies he had met were an empty lot, even those he got into bed. He began to think of excuses for leaving early.

"I would be most happy to meet them," he said.

Nicephorus nodded to a servant, who bowed and slipped out. Meanwhile he poured wine with his own hand and turned to admiring the calyx. "See, is this not lovely? No such work could be done today. See how she stands there. Aphrodite risen new-born from the sea, wringing out her long tresses while the world sings about her. . . . Oh, good evening, my dears. My wife Dorothea, my daughter Maria. The right noble

Manglabites Araltes, captain of the Varangian Guard and heir to the throne of Hyperborea."

The older woman was quiet, good-looking in a faded way. It was on the younger one that Harald's gaze fell, and stayed.

She was tall, youthfully slender in her long silken gown, graceful on her feet. Her head was proudly carried, the blue-black hair piled in classic mode, the unveiled face so clean of line that it seemed cold until one noticed her smile. Beneath arched brows her eyes were big and dark, encountering Harald's steadily. He had rarely seen such beauty as lay in those faintly tipped eyes.

"This is a great honor, despotes." Her voice was low-pitched. "And how can we ever thank you for saving our father's life?"

"A
...
a lucky chance," mumbled Harald. "Naught more. He, um, he would belike only have been held for ransom anyway."

"That would have been nigh as bad," Nicephorus said. "We are not rich." He waved them toward chairs. "Be seated, I pray you. I've promised Maria you would explain what happened at Draginas. To me the battle was sheer chaos."

Harald, who had taken a deep draught of wine, began to feel it. "Gyrgi, Georgios Maniakes, alone understands fully what went on," he said. Striving to curb the return of anger: "He and I had our quarrels, but he remains among the best men I have met down here; next to Olaf the Stout and Jaroslav the Wise, the best man I ever served."

"A vile trick they played on him," said Maria. Harald saw the color rise in her cheeks. One small hand drew into a fist. "The Empire has so few men worth anything. And then to throw this one into a dungeon!"

"Hush!" Her mother glanced fearfully at the doorway. "You
are
of Her Sacred Majesty's court."

"By Zeus, we will speak truth tonight," exclaimed Nicephorus. "Our servants are old and trusty folk come with us from the country. I say God will punish the Empire for its ingratitude to Maniakes."

"At least the Saracens will," drawled Harald.

Maria surprised him with a chuckle. "Why do you stay in this ungrateful place, Manglabites?" she asked.

"For gold," he shrugged.

"Now there's an honest man, father. The true Homeric insolence . . . Forgive me, despotes. I should not have spoken so familiarly. Dwelling far from court as we did most of my life, I fear I never learned proper manners."

"Why, kyria," said Harald, "what they call manners
down here seems to me only . .
"He broke off, feeling he approached dangerous ground. "As for the battle of Draginas," he said in haste.

When he had finished with that, Nicephorus suggested they dine. The meal was at once more simple and more subtle than most Byzantine cookery: fruits, soups, fish prepared in olive oil, well-chosen wines. Harald paid most heed to the candle glow shimmering along the curve of Maria's breast. The talk soon turned to himself, by her doing. "Will you never return home?" she asked.