Byzantium (8 page)

‘I have found the perfect pair. Hermes and Apollo, I call them. They are beautiful, as vain as Narcissus, and insufferably arrogant. They are also inseparable, though whether it is a friendship in the style of the ancient Greeks whom they so closely resemble, I am as yet uncertain. Of course, I intend to separate them. I am dining with them both tonight.’

‘Little daughter! You are scandalous. But so deliciously . . .
inventive.
How I envy your freedom. Not from convention; may the Holy Theotokos forgive me, I have never been constrained by that. But to be able to make love and yet be untrammelled by love. How I envy you that.’

‘Aeifor!’ yelled Gleb. ‘The pelican roost. The fourth
cataract. The most deadly.’ But the noise of Aeifor was not that of any water. It was that of a living thing, a monstrous, baleful groan, as if some titanic beast had been stirred from sleep. As the sound rose, the Rus oarsmen looked anxiously at one another. In one morning they had already passed through a lifetime of terror. The walls of giant-set stones across the river; the sucking, dizzying, mortally cold eddies; ships disappearing behind the foaming veils; and timbers showering up over the great rocks as ships exploded. The hideous flotsam, shattered strakes, cargo pods, and the limp, seemingly boneless pulp that even now chased them down the death-strewn Dnieper like shrieking ghosts. Perhaps a hundred ships and their crews had been lost already. What lay ahead?

Aeifor first appeared as a white haze over the river. A few herons and pelicans emerged like snowflakes from the mist and flew overhead in greeting. Within minutes the current began a rapid acceleration, and then huge, jagged rocks loomed towards the starboard. The pelicans swarmed. Clouds of spray boiled into the air. Between two massive, cathedral-like rock upthrusts was a vast, swirling maw.

The ship seemed to hit something solid. The steering oar at the stern jerked like a giant arm and swatted the steersman into the river; the hapless Rus shot past with both arms raised, almost as if he were waving goodbye, then surrendered to the Dnieper. Haraldr dashed for the wildly swiping steering oar as the ship spun and then heeled, almost capsizing. With Gleb virtually clinging to his back, he put all his weight against the bucking shaft. The oar settled and the ship fought the current, heading hard larboard.

Over his shoulder Haraldr saw a ship disappear into Aeifor’s white shroud. The deadly mist parted for an instant, and a prow, then the entire ship, shot high above the lip of the great whirlpool, men leaping overboard, the abandoned oars flailing like the legs of a desperate centipede. Then the prow lurched down and the ship simply vanished, swallowed whole by the beast Aeifor.

The beach that ran along the larboard bank was sandy with periodic eruptions of jutting rocks. The oarsmen rowed for their lives; the iron grip of Aeifor never slackened, as it had near the banks skirting the other cataracts. They would have to come fast against the suction to ground the ship firmly on the beach.

Fifty ells to the shore. Haraldr braced for the shock. An oarsman lost his grip and slumped from his sea-chest. The shaft of an arrow sprouted from his neck; crimson rivulets oozed from the wound. Seconds later the ship jolted, timbers swayed, and the prow lifted. Haraldr swung his shield around from his back and jumped to firm, welcoming sand. To his right, Hakon’s ship slid onto the strand.

The arrow blurred past Haraldr’s ear, for an instant buzzing against the terrifying groan of Aeifor. The Rus set their wall of shields in the Norse fashion, crouching and anchoring their long spears against the sand.

A very long time seemed to pass. Haraldr feared that Aeifor only masked the shrieks of the Pechenegs; certainly they were a few dozen ells away in the thick brush, readying a massive charge. But the wall of foliage beyond the wall of shields was quiet. The leaves hung motionless; the sun glinted off them like a reflection in a stagnant pond. Jarl Rognavald knelt beside Haraldr. ‘I think we have surprised them,’ he yelled. ‘They haven’t been able to assemble for an attack.’ The Jarl located the lone Pecheneg sniper and signalled for an archer. After the Rus bowman had fired two arrows, the Jarl stood up, lifted his helm, and stroked his sweat-matted white hair. Haraldr felt as if he had miraculously escaped another humiliation, and yet he also had a strange, haunting sense of disappointment, as if he had taken the wrong road and would now miss some extraordinary marvel.

The ships were lifted over log rollers and moved along the old portage trail with surprising speed. Hot dust clogged windpipes, and the sun glowered through a metallic haze. The afternoon wore on, an orchestration of endless, groaning motion. The portage followed a relatively cleared path through a generally wooded area; porters cut away the brush and small trees that had grown up in eight years. Occasionally runners trotted up to the Jarl with reports of men lost to Pecheneg archers, but there was no word of any concerted attacks along a line of ships that now extended down the river front for half a rowing-spell. Varangians detailed to various potential trouble spots along the line came and went in groups of fifty or a hundred, marching in smart order in their gleaming byrnnies.

Haraldr was surprised to hear Gleb announce that the portage was almost three-quarters complete. Defences relaxed; a few men at a time could now slump for a rest on a pile of furs or a barrel of pickled meat. Hakon, trailed by his dogs, wandered the beach, dragging the gilded spear point of his enormous, gold-inlaid broad-axe in the sand. He saw Jarl Rognvald, Gleb and Haraldr and walked over, grinning like a beaver. ‘Jarl Rognvald,’ he called out as he approached, ‘you see what has happened, don’t you? The turd-suckers know Mar Hunrodarson well, and it seems that they have also heard of his man, Hakon Fire-Eyes.’ He raised his axe to his chest. They won’t come against us.’ With comic emphasis Hakon warily rubbed a finger over his immaculate axe blade. ‘Folk-Mower, here, is angry with the corpse-eating savages. He is thirsty for the wine of ravens.’ Then Hakon swivelled his sparking eyes towards Haraldr with feral menace. ‘Why, Green-wood! I hardly recognized you in your battle toys. And on your feet instead of your knees!’ He rapped Haraldr’s breastplate. ‘You must have bashed up some old woman’s kettle to make this.’ Haraldr was annoyed at his own passive, silent response; it was as if his body and mind were suddenly drained of will, even thought.

Bored with this game, Hakon wandered back to his ship, detailed some more of his Varangians upriver, then talked with his two concubines and some slave girls before returning with his hawk on his arm. ‘Pelican harrier!’ he announced to everyone within earshot, his grin boyish and proud. He removed the plumed golden hood from the sturdy, chevron-breasted bird.

Gleb wrinkled his red, swollen nose. ‘I don’t like that smell.’

‘My hawk smells better than you, louse-eating Slav!’ snapped Hakon.

Gleb ignored Hakon and looked at Jarl Rognvald. He had not been referring to the bird. The hawk spiralled into the air, and Gleb continued to sniff. Haraldr noticed that Hakon’s dogs had pricked up their ears. He retrieved his spear.

A puff of feathers in the coppery haze. Hakon’s hawk fell towards the river like a stone. ‘Shield-wall!’ shouted Gleb.

The wailing shriek that came from the woods pierced even the monstrous plaint of Aeifor. The first wave of Pechenegs seemed, almost deliberately, to fall on the upraised spears of the hastily constructed shield-wall, though in fact they were pushed by the crush from behind. Within moments the shield-wall staggered back from the sheer weight of the Pechenegs, then fractured. The horde poured through, and this time, unlike in Stiklestad, Haraldr watched death stalk in the searing light of day. He was pushed back inexorably towards the river, a witless participant in a mortal dance. He watched with idiotic clarity as the polychrome Pecheneg horde surged to the river’s edge on his left and Hakon’s dazzlingly metallic Varangian force retreated with shocking alacrity even farther to the left, falling back upriver, disappearing through a clump of trees. He could see the figure of Hakon in his golden byrnnie, as distinctly as a magically animated little statue, running.

The hostile Dnieper was the only refuge for those who had not fled or already fallen to the swarming Pechenegs: Haraldr, Jarl Rognvald, Gleb, and maybe half a dozen Varangians who either had had the misfortune to miss Hakon’s precipitous retreat or had the good sense to protect the expedition’s pilot. Before his boots were even half submerged, Haraldr could feel the icy current swiping at his legs. When the rushing snow-melt seized his testicles, Haraldr heard the dark voice from the pit of his soul: you are going to die.

The vanguard of the Pecheneg horde stood at the water’s edge, a jeering riot of antic brown limbs and flashing blades. They were less than thirty ells away. An archer wearing only a loincloth came out to test the water and made it half-way to the tight cluster of Norsemen before he shot down the river as if yanked on a string. A hundred ells downriver, his head went under, not to be seen again.

But the Dnieper offered a precarious sanctuary even for the huge Norsemen. One of the Varangians lost his footing, and the entire group staggered before they could make common cause against the rushing river. When they had steadied somewhat, the tallest Varangian spoke. He Was about Haraldr’s age and size, and impressively handsome. His voice was as calm as if he were sitting on a stump whittling a stick. ‘Hakon will be here within a quarter of an hour,’ he assured his comrades. ‘He was wise to fall back and summon the rest of the Varangians from upriver. Soon the corpses of these shitheads will be colder than we are.’

Jarl Rognvald turned to the Varangians. ‘Yes. All we need do is stay on our feet until then.’ But inwardly the Jarl suspected not. What he had seen looked more like a treacherous desertion than a strategic retreat.

Aeifor roared on. The Pechenegs jittered and waited, occasionally launching a few spears or arrows; the Varangians fielded the missiles on their shields as though playing a game. The game became less amusing as the current continued its numbing assault; Haraldr’s legs were turning to dead stumps. Finally there was a commotion, and the teeming mass of Pechenegs was parted by a silk-clad chieftain accompanied by three or four byrnnie-clad subalterns and dozens of variegated retainers, including some women in expensive Frisian cloth robes apparently just looted from the Rus ships. ‘The turd on top of the dung heap,’ said the handsome Varangian in a remarkably laconic voice.

The Pecheneg chief had wide, thick shoulders; a scowling, beetlish face peered out beneath a finely embossed Norse-style helm. He stood with his hands at his hips and shouted furiously at the Norsemen, then at his own men. He stomped up and down the beach for a few minutes, every now and then pausing to exhort the heavens or kick at the sand. This exhibition concluded, he simply sat on his haunches and waved his retainers away.

The Varangians began to discuss a break-out, but the handsome young Varangian was adamant in his faith in Hakon. ‘We’re pledge-men,’ he reminded his comrades. ‘That’s what
Varangian
means. Men who pledge their lives in defence of one another. It is an inviolable troth.’ It was as if this Varangian believed the invocation of this pledge would almost magically transport Hakon and the rest of the Varangians to their side.

‘Maybe they are pinned down upriver,’ offered a shorter, thick-necked Varangian with boyish, rock-crystal eyes.

Haraldr admired the loyalty of the Varangians. They’re good men, he decided. They deserve a better leader.

The Pecheneg chief suddenly leapt to his feet, screaming and gesturing as if he had been seated over a fire. Almost immediately the Pechenegs swarmed the nearest ship upriver from the Norsemen. The blood that chilled in Haraldr’s aching limbs seemed to crystallize, cold water turning instantly to ice.

‘We’ve got to move now!’ shouted Haraldr; he did not bother to explain why, and only distantly wondered why he was giving commands. ‘If we clasp arms and form a ring, we can drift together until we get to the rocks!’

The handsome Varangian quickly appraised the situation. Like industrious ants, the Pechenegs had already lifted the massive hull from the log rollers and were creeping towards the water. ‘That’s the best plan now,’ he calmly agreed. His eyes had a wounded look, not of fear but of betrayal. Hakon has lost something more valuable than all the gold in Grikia, thought Haraldr.

The ship was almost floated, due less to organisation than to the numbers and the verminous frenzy of the Pechenegs. Thirteen ells at beam, fifty ells long, and careening down the river, the big river craft would crush the Norsemen like snails. The desperate human raft floated away just as the looming hull began to bob towards them.

The Dnieper’s suction drew them on at a fantastic speed, but the ship, a more seaworthy craft, came on faster. The white water was just ahead. Haraldr’s foot smashed into a rock but his feet were so numb that he hardly noticed. His head went under, and water surged up his nostrils like solid plugs of ice. The ring broke up. Insensible feet scrambled to gain a foothold on the treacherous bottom. The ship whooshed past; seconds later a series of muffled cracks announced its destruction on the rocks.

‘Make the boar!’ yelled Jarl Rognvald. The boar-array was a wedge of men driven into the heart of the enemy. The Varangians quickly found their places. Jarl Rognvald took the snout, grabbed Haraldr’s arm, and placed him at his right flank; the handsome Varangian took the same position on the Jarl’s left. The essential Gleb was tucked safely in the middle of the wedge.

The boar moved warily through the spiky, foaming shallows. The Pechenegs crowded the bank, spears thrusting and sabres waving. ‘Follow my cadence!’ growled Jarl Rognvald. The Pechenegs were only a few ells away. Voices were screaming deafeningly both inside and outside Haraldr’s skull.

‘Fast!’ Jarl Rognvald lurched forward at a near run. His axe rose and fell like a woodcutter’s. Haraldr pushed against the mass of Pechenegs with his shield, but it was as if the beast of his fear had seized his sword; he still could not lift it. He struggled to keep moving forward against the weight on his shield. He could see a rock-strewn rise ahead and promised himself that if they made it, they would live. Then sun-flared metal showered over the rise. Not Norse steel but Pecheneg mail jerkins and captured Hunland swords. The Pechenegs had brought up their best footmen.