King's Man (5 page)

So it was that three days after my interview with the Basileus's sinister brother I was aboard a small ferry boat, being rowed across the choppy waters of the Golden Horn towards the landing place at Mamas. With me were two dour-looking officials from the secretariat of the dromos. To judge from their manner, they thought it was a vile imposition to be plucked from the calm shelter of their offices and sent to interview a gang of uncouth barbarians from the north. One of the officials wrinkled his nose with distaste as he clutched his robe so that the hem did not get soaked by the slop of bilge water. Since they were on official business, both he and his colleague were wearing formal costumes which denoted their bureaucratic rank. His cloak had a green border, so I knew he was a high-ranking civil servant, and I wondered whether he too spoke Norse. The office of the dromos maintained a college of trained interpreters and it would be typical of the Orphanotrophus to send not one but two spies so he could cross-check their impressions.

As our little boat approached the landing stage, the sight of the moored flotilla of a dozen or so boats suddenly made me homesick for the northern lands. The monocylon, as John had called them, were a smaller version of the curved seagoing ships I had known all my life. The boats docked at Mamas were less well built than genuine ocean-going vessels, but they were handy enough for short sea crossings and very different from the tubby hulls favoured by the Greeks. My nostalgia grew as I scrambled up on to the quay and walked across the open ground where the foreigners had been given permission to pitch their tents. There were piles of flax sails, wooden kegs, spars, coils of rope, anchors and other ship's gear, all so familiar to me. I could smell the tar on the ropes and the grease on the leather straps of the steering blades. Even the stacked oars were of the same pattern I had used when I was a youngster.

The encampment, with its neat rows of tents, had a vaguely military feeling, and I understood why the imperial spies had reported their unease. This large assembly of travellers had definitely not come to Constantinople to buy and sell goods. The men strolling around the camp, hovering over the cooking pots, or simply lazing in the sun, all had the look of warriors. They were big and self-confident and they were Norse — that was sure. They had the blond colouring of the Norse, the long hair and luxuriant beards, and they wore the characteristic heavy leggings and cross-garters, though their tunics were a motley of colours and cloths, ranging from linen to leather. One or two even wore sheepskin jerkins, which were highly unsuitable in Constantinople's sunshine.

I scarcely attracted a glance from these burly strangers as I headed for a tent, larger than the others, which stood apart. I recognised it at once as a command tent, and did not need to be told that this was where we would find the leaders of this unknown group.

Gesturing to my two companions that they should wait outside, I pushed open the door flap. As I entered, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the subdued light. Around a trestle table stood a group of four or five men. Observing that I was a stranger and dressed in a foreign uniform — for I wore the guards' scarlet tunic - they waited impassively for me to explain what I wanted. But one man, thickset, with bushy grey hair and a heavy beard, reacted differently. He stared hard at me.

There was an awkward silence while I wondered how I should introduce myself, and what tone I should adopt. Then the silence was broken. 'Thorgils Leifsson! By all the Gods, if it isn't Thorgils!' the grey-haired man exclaimed loudly. He spoke with an unmistakable Icelandic accent, and I could even pick out which region of Iceland he came from: he was a man from the west fjords. His voice also gave me the clue to his identity, and a moment later I placed him. He was Halldor Snorrason, fifth son of Snorri Godi, with whose family I had stayed in Iceland as a young man. In fact, Halldor's sister Hallbera had been the first girl with whom I had fallen in love, and Halldor's father had played a crucial role in my teenage years.

"What's that fancy uniform you're wearing?' Halldor asked, striding across to clap me on the shoulder. 'The last we heard, you were headed off into Permia to buy furs from the ski-runners. Don't tell me that Thorgils, former associate of that outlaw Grettir the Strong, is now a member of the imperial Life Guard.'

'Yes, I'll have been a guardsman three years this autumn,' I said, and here I dropped my voice in case the men from the dromos could hear me through the tent cloth. 'I've been sent to find out what you and your comrades are doing, and why you have come to Constantinople.'

'Oh, that's no secret. You can go back to your chief and tell him that we've come to offer our services as fighting men to the Emperor of Miklagard,' Halldor replied cheerfully. 'We hear that he pays very well and the chances of loot are excellent. We want to go home as rich men!' He laughed.

I had to smile at his enthusiasm. 'What? All of you want to join the Life Guard? I'm told that there are five hundred of you. A recruit only joins when there is a vacancy and there is a long waiting list.'

'No,' said Halldor. 'We don't want to join the guard. Our plan is to stay together as a single fighting unit.'

The idea was so unexpected that for a moment I was silenced. Norsemen did not usually form themselves into disciplined warrior brigades, particularly when they were roving freebooters hoping to loot and plunder. They were far too independent-minded. There had to be another factor.

Halldor saw my puzzlement. 'Every one of us has already pledged allegiance to one man, a single leader. If he finds service with the Basileus, then we follow him.'

'Who is that man?' I asked.

'I am,' said a deep voice, and I turned to see a tall, soldierly figure stooping in under the door flap at the far end of the tent. He straightened up to his full height, and in that instant I knew that Odinn had answered my profoundest hope.

Harald Sigurdsson - as I soon knew him to be and that was long before he became known as Hardrada, 'Hard Ruler' - stood a little under six and a half feet tall, and in the half light of the tent he was like a hero emerging from the shadowy world of the earliest sagas. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he moved with an athletic grace, towering over the other men. When he came closer, I imagined for a moment that I was looking up into the face of someone I had heard described in a fireside tale when I was a child. He had the fierce look of a sea eagle. His prominent nose was like a beak, while his close-set bright blue eyes had an intense, almost unblinking stare. His thick yellow hair, too, resembled the ruff of long feathers around a sea eagle's neck, for it hung down to his shoulders, and he had a quick way of turning his head, like a bird of prey seeking a victim, so that the hair shifted on his shoulders like an eagle's ruff. His moustache was even more spectacular. It was dressed in a style long out of fashion: two thick strands of moustache hung down on either side of his mouth, like blond silk cords, and dangled against his chest.

'And who are you?' he demanded.

I was so stunned by his appearance that I faltered in my reply, and Halldor had to fill the gap for me.

'He is Thorgils, son of Leif the Lucky,' said the Icelander. 'He used to stay at my father's place in Iceland when he was a teenager.'

'He's your foster brother?'

'No — my father took an interest in him because he was what you might call gifted. He has, or had, the second sight.'

The giant Norseman turned towards me, and his eyes searched my face, judging me. I sensed that he was calculating whether I could be useful to him.

'Is that the uniform of an imperial Life Guard?'

'Yes, my lord,'
I
replied. Calling him 'my lord' seemed utterly natural. If ever I had seen a born aristocrat, it was this tall, proud stranger. I guessed he was about fifteen years younger than me, but there was no question who was owed respect.

'I suppose they've sent you as a spy,' he said bluntly. 'Tell your master that we are exactly what we seem to be — a war band — and that its leader is Harald Sigurdsson of Norway, half-brother of St Olaf. Tell him that I have come to place my myself and my men at his disposal. Tell him also that we are veteran fighters. Most of us have already seen service in the household of King Jaroslav of Kiev.'

Now I knew exactly who he was: scion of one of the most powerful families in Norway. His half-brother Olaf had ruled Norway for a dozen years before being toppled by jealous chieftains. 'I'm only a duty escort, my lord,' I said meekly. 'You need to talk to the two officials waiting outside. They are from the seketron — from the office which looks after foreign envoys. They will handle the arrangements.'

'Then don't let's waste time,' Harald said briskly. 'Introduce me.' And he turned on his heel and left the tent. I hurried after him just in time to see the expressions on the faces of the two bureaucrats as this imperious giant of a man bore down on them. They looked alarmed.

'This is the leader of the, er, barbarians,' I said in Greek. 'He is very high-born. In his own country he's a nobelissimus. He has spent some time in the court of Kiev and now wishes that he and his men enter the service of the great Basileus.'

The two civil servants had regained their composure. They produced parchment and reed pens from the small ivory work cases they carried and waited expectantly.

'Please repeat the name of the nobelissimus,' said the man whom I took to be the senior.

'Harald, son of Sigurd,' I answered.

'His rank and tribe?'

'No tribe,' I replied. 'From his family have come the kings of a far northern country called Norway.'

The civil servant murmured something to his colleague. I could not hear what he said, but the man nodded.

'Is his father the current king of his people?'

This was becoming embarrassing. I had no idea of Harald's current status, and was too nervous to ask him directly, so I translated the question to Halldor, who had joined us. But it was Harald himself who replied.

'Tell him that my country was ruled by my half-brother until he was killed in battle by his enemies and that I am the rightful heir.'

Harald, I thought to myself, had a very clear idea of his own worth. I translated his statement and the official wrote it down carefully. He was clearly feeling more comfortable now that he could reduce everything to the written word.

'I will need an exact roster of the people in his company -their names, ages, rank and places of origin. Also a full inventory of any goods they are carrying: type, size and description of their weapons; number and condition of the sea craft they have; whether there has been any sickness during the journey from Kiev . . .'

I sensed that Harald, beside me, was losing patience.

'Making lists, are they?' he interrupted.

'Yes, my lord. They have to report back to their office with a full description of your war band and all its equipment.'

'Excellent,' he said. 'Tell them to make a second copy for me. It could be useful for my quartermasters.' Then he turned on his heel and strode away.

Fortunately one of the Rus guides who had brought Harald and his men downriver from Kiev spoke adequate Greek and volunteered to relieve me of the chore of translating as the bureaucrats from the dromos patiently went about their task. I took the chance to draw Halldor to one side and ask him about Harald.

'What's this about him being the rightful heir to the throne of Norway?' I asked. 'And if he is the rightful heir, why has he been spending time at the court of King Jaroslav in Kiev?'

'He had to flee Norway when his half-brother was defeated and killed in battle while trying to regain the throne. He found refuge with King Jaroslav, as did many other Norwegians who backed the wrong side in the civil war. He spent three years in Kiev as a military commander and was so outstanding that he asked the king if he could marry his daughter Elizabeth.'

It seemed that there was no limit to the self-confidence of Harald Sigurdsson.

'So what was the king's answer?'

'He didn't need to say anything. The Princess Elizabeth told Harald to come back when he had riches and renown, and as Harald is not one to let the grass grow under his feet, he retorted that he would win his fortune in the service of the Basileus. Anyone who wanted to join him could do so if they were good warriors and swore allegiance to him. Then he left Kiev with his war band.'

'Well, what about you? Was Harald's boast enough to make you join up?'

'It's just as I said, Thorgils. I want to be rich. If there's anyone on this earth who's going to win plunder, it's Harald Sigurdsson. He's ambitious, he's energetic, and, above all, he's got battle luck.'

There was one more question which I had to ask, and I dreaded the reply.

'Is Harald a follower of the White Christ,' I asked, 'or does he follow the Old Ways?'

'That's the odd thing,' replied Halldor. 'You would have thought Harald would be as Christian as his half-brother King Olaf, whom many are now calling "St Olaf". Yet, I've never seen Harald go out of his way to attend a church service or say a prayer to Christ. He serves just one God — himself. He knows exactly what he wants: to win the throne of Norway, and he will follow any God or belief that will help him achieve his ambition.'