and bribery and blackmail which sluiced beneath the treasure rooms and incense-smoky halls of Miklagard. These backwaters were the Emperor’s proving ground, from which heemerged unscathed time and again, while his enemies begged for mercy, found none and glimpsed the world for the final time through the veil of blood-dimmed eyes.
The codes by which a Varangian lived could not have contained a man like the Emperor, and yet it was because of him that the Varangian existed at all. The only thing we shared with him was a mutual loyalty, symbolised each month by the Emperor’s inspection of his private army.
In the days leading up to the inspections, all the servants like myself busily polished shields, repaired clothes and sharpened swords.
It was the edge on a Norseman’s sword which brought the Varangian into being, or so the story went. A group of Norsemen had been captured in a raid on Miklagard. The Emperor decided that their heads would be struck off with their own weapons. As the first man knelt before the executioner, he asked that his long hair not be cut by the blow of the sword. The Emperor granted the request. One of Emperor’s men took the hair in his hand, wrapped it around his wrist and held it away from the raider’s neck. As the sword came down, the raider jerked his head to one side, and the blade went through the arm of the man who held his hair, missing the raider’s neck entirely. Impressed by the ingenuity of this, the Emperor offered to spare the man’s life. The Norseman accepted, but only on condition that those who had been captured with him would be spared as well. A deal was struck, and they went on to become the Emperor’s personal guard.
At the inspection, all Varangians would kneel in a line before the Emperor, hands on the hilts of swords balanced upright in front of them. Often, the Emperor reached out from the folds of his robes and touched our hair. The blonder it was, the greater his fascination, but red hair intrigued him most of all. This made Halfdan of interest to the Emperor, who sometimesstopped to brush his hand across the top of Halfdan’s head.
Halfdan could barely contain his disgust. ‘I may be on my knees before that man, but at least I know who I am. He and all his kind are lost in a maze and they cannot leave because they do not even know they are lost.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because they have grown more comfortable in dreams than in the waking world.’
I looked around at the bowed heads of the Varangian, heavy-knuckled hands resting on the hilts of their swords, eyes closed, peaceful in their reverence for the man who rented out their bravery from year to year. Suddenly, none of it seemed to have any substance. It all appeared to ripple, the way the surface of a pond moves in a breeze. And then, just as suddenly, I found myself again on solid ground, with the confusion of a sleep-walker shaken from his dreams.
*
Soon after our arrival, the Varangian had chosen Halfdan as their priest, to guarantee the favour of the gods. This role removed him from the lures of the outer world, in whose perfumed arms the others wrapped themselves from time to time. It was no rule which kept Halfdan away from women. Rather, it was the women who steered clear of him. They knew who he was, knew the powers he was said to have. He frightened them and the only kindness he could show was to keep his distance.
For the rest, caught up in Varangian life, the lack of natural balance between men and women made for its own frustrations.
Days would go by in Miklagard when I did not see a woman my own age. Most were old cleaning women brought in to wipe the floors and prepare food. They never spoke to Norsemen, nor did they look us in the eye. Others were children of the Emperor’s men, who looked on us as monsters come to lifefrom bed-time stories. Or they were concubines, who we almost never saw but only heard, laughing behind closed doors. Others were whores, the buying of whose
The codes by which a Varangian lived could not have contained a man like the Emperor, and yet it was because of him that the Varangian existed at all. The only thing we shared with him was a mutual loyalty, symbolised each month by the Emperor’s inspection of his private army.
In the days leading up to the inspections, all the servants like myself busily polished shields, repaired clothes and sharpened swords.
It was the edge on a Norseman’s sword which brought the Varangian into being, or so the story went. A group of Norsemen had been captured in a raid on Miklagard. The Emperor decided that their heads would be struck off with their own weapons. As the first man knelt before the executioner, he asked that his long hair not be cut by the blow of the sword. The Emperor granted the request. One of Emperor’s men took the hair in his hand, wrapped it around his wrist and held it away from the raider’s neck. As the sword came down, the raider jerked his head to one side, and the blade went through the arm of the man who held his hair, missing the raider’s neck entirely. Impressed by the ingenuity of this, the Emperor offered to spare the man’s life. The Norseman accepted, but only on condition that those who had been captured with him would be spared as well. A deal was struck, and they went on to become the Emperor’s personal guard.
At the inspection, all Varangians would kneel in a line before the Emperor, hands on the hilts of swords balanced upright in front of them. Often, the Emperor reached out from the folds of his robes and touched our hair. The blonder it was, the greater his fascination, but red hair intrigued him most of all. This made Halfdan of interest to the Emperor, who sometimesstopped to brush his hand across the top of Halfdan’s head.
Halfdan could barely contain his disgust. ‘I may be on my knees before that man, but at least I know who I am. He and all his kind are lost in a maze and they cannot leave because they do not even know they are lost.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because they have grown more comfortable in dreams than in the waking world.’
I looked around at the bowed heads of the Varangian, heavy-knuckled hands resting on the hilts of their swords, eyes closed, peaceful in their reverence for the man who rented out their bravery from year to year. Suddenly, none of it seemed to have any substance. It all appeared to ripple, the way the surface of a pond moves in a breeze. And then, just as suddenly, I found myself again on solid ground, with the confusion of a sleep-walker shaken from his dreams.
*
Soon after our arrival, the Varangian had chosen Halfdan as their priest, to guarantee the favour of the gods. This role removed him from the lures of the outer world, in whose perfumed arms the others wrapped themselves from time to time. It was no rule which kept Halfdan away from women. Rather, it was the women who steered clear of him. They knew who he was, knew the powers he was said to have. He frightened them and the only kindness he could show was to keep his distance.
For the rest, caught up in Varangian life, the lack of natural balance between men and women made for its own frustrations.
Days would go by in Miklagard when I did not see a woman my own age. Most were old cleaning women brought in to wipe the floors and prepare food. They never spoke to Norsemen, nor did they look us in the eye. Others were children of the Emperor’s men, who looked on us as monsters come to lifefrom bed-time stories. Or they were concubines, who we almost never saw but only heard, laughing behind closed doors. Others were whores, the buying of whose
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