by a Swede named Ingvar. Hundreds came along, sailing in a great fleet across the Baltic, down the Dnieper, across the Black and Caspian seas, rolling their ships on logs or hauling them overland on huge carts, even as far as the sea of Aral. From there, Ingvar and his men set out on foot. Somewhere in that emptiness, they disappeared. Afew made it back. Barely a handful of men. One of the survivors was Halfdan. What had happened to them, and who or what had scythed them down, Halfdan either would not say or could not recall. The horror of it stood like a wall around his memories.
The mystery surrounding this disaster gave each Norseman room to shape his own worst nightmare in his head. This was why Halfdan had been favoured by Kalf and his crew, just as he was by the Varangians, as a man who had survived what they feared they could not. But, having reached this place a second time, Halfdan refused to go on, despite the Emperor’s orders to continue.
Fear sifted through our ranks. It was as if some angry presence walked among us, breathing the dust of old graves in our faces and wanting to know our business here. This was the only time we ever retreated.
Months later, we returned to Miklagard. We rode through the streets, trailing the riderless horses of our dead. People came out of their houses and counted our losses on their fingers as we went by.
In many dreams to come, I would recall the precise balance of wonder and fear I felt at that moment, out on the wastelandsof Arak. It was as if a part of me would never leave that desolate ground and would always be standing there, trying to find the courage to go forward into the unknown.
*
My service to Halfdan ended when he was killed in a fight near Nicomedia.
We had been escorting the Emperor home after a month-long visit to Trebizond. We were halted in a steep and rocky gorge by about forty men, whose tribe was unknown to us, as was the reason for their attack. They blocked our passage and sent down a drizzle of arrows from their hiding places behind boulders and crooked trees which clung to the crumbling slope. The arrows whistled as they fell among us, now and then striking our shields with a clack of iron against wood. Turning, we saw that our exit from the gorge had now been blocked as well.
These strangers howled and swung their swords above their heads, sharpened edges gleaming in the sun. Others lined the exit from the pass, bent down on one knee and holding out double-bladed spears, one pointing forward and another pointing down. This would gut the horses if we galloped through their ranks. They assumed that we would have to try or face being whittled away by arrows in that cold-shadowed gorge.
The enemy looked surprised when we dismounted and began our advance on foot. No one had told them that the Varangian never fight on horseback.
I hung back in a second line with the other servants as well as one Varangian, a monstrous Celt named Cabal, whose wild hair and shaggy beard made him appear more beast than man. He came from the land of the Cymraig and stood taller than all but a few Varangian. His chest was banded in muscle, with a saddlebag of fat resting on each hip. Cabal had drunk bad wine the night before and was too sick to fight.
The Emperor also stayed behind with the horses. He was dressed as a servant, a precaution he always took when we travelled. He muttered curses at the strangers, while others tried to control the nervous animals.
My task was to keep Halfdan always in my sight. He carried his axe and shield and had left me with his sword, to bring to him if it was needed.
Ever since the first time I had taken part in a fight, I was surprised at how little fear I felt when things began to move. Later, I knew, I would suffer from dreams patched together out of near-misses and the sight of blood, the shrill screams of half-butchered men, the coughing of those with gut wounds, and the hopeless heavy breathing of men whose skulls were shattered.
The mystery surrounding this disaster gave each Norseman room to shape his own worst nightmare in his head. This was why Halfdan had been favoured by Kalf and his crew, just as he was by the Varangians, as a man who had survived what they feared they could not. But, having reached this place a second time, Halfdan refused to go on, despite the Emperor’s orders to continue.
Fear sifted through our ranks. It was as if some angry presence walked among us, breathing the dust of old graves in our faces and wanting to know our business here. This was the only time we ever retreated.
Months later, we returned to Miklagard. We rode through the streets, trailing the riderless horses of our dead. People came out of their houses and counted our losses on their fingers as we went by.
In many dreams to come, I would recall the precise balance of wonder and fear I felt at that moment, out on the wastelandsof Arak. It was as if a part of me would never leave that desolate ground and would always be standing there, trying to find the courage to go forward into the unknown.
*
My service to Halfdan ended when he was killed in a fight near Nicomedia.
We had been escorting the Emperor home after a month-long visit to Trebizond. We were halted in a steep and rocky gorge by about forty men, whose tribe was unknown to us, as was the reason for their attack. They blocked our passage and sent down a drizzle of arrows from their hiding places behind boulders and crooked trees which clung to the crumbling slope. The arrows whistled as they fell among us, now and then striking our shields with a clack of iron against wood. Turning, we saw that our exit from the gorge had now been blocked as well.
These strangers howled and swung their swords above their heads, sharpened edges gleaming in the sun. Others lined the exit from the pass, bent down on one knee and holding out double-bladed spears, one pointing forward and another pointing down. This would gut the horses if we galloped through their ranks. They assumed that we would have to try or face being whittled away by arrows in that cold-shadowed gorge.
The enemy looked surprised when we dismounted and began our advance on foot. No one had told them that the Varangian never fight on horseback.
I hung back in a second line with the other servants as well as one Varangian, a monstrous Celt named Cabal, whose wild hair and shaggy beard made him appear more beast than man. He came from the land of the Cymraig and stood taller than all but a few Varangian. His chest was banded in muscle, with a saddlebag of fat resting on each hip. Cabal had drunk bad wine the night before and was too sick to fight.
The Emperor also stayed behind with the horses. He was dressed as a servant, a precaution he always took when we travelled. He muttered curses at the strangers, while others tried to control the nervous animals.
My task was to keep Halfdan always in my sight. He carried his axe and shield and had left me with his sword, to bring to him if it was needed.
Ever since the first time I had taken part in a fight, I was surprised at how little fear I felt when things began to move. Later, I knew, I would suffer from dreams patched together out of near-misses and the sight of blood, the shrill screams of half-butchered men, the coughing of those with gut wounds, and the hopeless heavy breathing of men whose skulls were shattered.
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