Byzantium by Michael Ennis Read Free Book Online Page A

want you to meet Haraldr Nordbrikt. I ask you to treat him as you would my son. You’ll find him different from most young men of our race. He has a special passion’ - Jarl Rognvald pounded his breast - ‘strong but gentle. He writes verse.’ The Jarl rustled Haraldr’s long silky hair. ‘Sometimes we say that our skalds “drink the ale of Odin.” Well, tonight Haraldr has drunk only ale.’
    ‘A poet,’ said Gregory appreciatively. ‘Then he must learn of Homer.’
    The ambassador wiped his mouth, as if trying to remove some contamination, and spoke sharply to Gregory in the flowing, interminably circuitous rhythm of the Greek tongue. His comments went on for several minutes. Gregory nodded respectfully from time to time.
    ‘Jarl Rognvald, it is sometimes argued that in our government a man rises on the accumulation of his words,’ said Gregory when the ambassador had finished. The little eunuch struggled to combat a smile. ‘Of course, that is not true. If it were, our august ambassador already would have ascended to the Imperial throne. What he has said is this. First, I am not to exchange inessential pleasantries with you “northern barbaroi ”. Forgive me, but I am afraid you will have to become accustomed to that term. More pertinently, the documents for the entire fleet of four hundred and eighty-six ships are now in order. There is nothing to prevent our departure. Unless, of course, the august ambassador decides to deliver an address to inaugurate our voyage.’
    Jarl Rognvald forced himself not to laugh; he presumed that the ambassador would be only too eager to take offence. ‘Have you seen Hakon? I don’t want to wait until the morning to speak with him.’
    Gregory lifted a wry eyebrow. ‘I am afraid I have seen more of the Manglavite than I had hoped.’
    ‘Manglavite?’ asked Haraldr.
    ‘Hakon Fire-Eyes holds the official title of Manglavite. He symbolically clears the path for the Emperor in official processions,’ said Gregory. ‘It is an extraordinary honour.’ He did not add that it was a particularly extraordinary honour for a barbaros, and a frightening testament to the enormous, malignant power of Hakon’s patron, Mar Hunrodarson.
    Gregory led the Jarl and Haraldr to the Varangian encampment. It seemed as if all of the five hundred swaggering young warriors had assembled in a rollicking mob around some central attraction. Haraldr reluctantly followed the Jarl into their midst; though he was taller and broader than all but a few, he felt as if his cowardice were a physical defect they would immediately recognize and ridicule.
    At the centre of the crowd was a naked woman, a coarsely ruddy farm girl with short-cropped slave’s hair, firm heavy buttocks, and small breasts with boyish nipples. She stared numbly at a man sitting on an ale barrel; he was huge even by Norse standards. He wore a short lacquered gold byrnnie but was naked below the waist; his legs were so thickly muscled, they seemed like the pillars of some colossal temple. His head slumped towards his chest, and his long golden hair concealed his face. He held a hand to his crotch, as if he had been injured. It was a moment before Haraldr realized that the giant was actually stroking his own genitals, apparently trying to coax an erection so that he could publicly penetrate the unfortunate slave girl. Then Haraldr noticed the other naked slave, a slender girl who sat forlornly in the sand; blood smeared her inner thighs. She was no doubt the reason for the giant’s temporary impotence. Several more slave girls, roped together and wearing coarse wool tunics, stood behind her, dreadfully waiting their turn.
    The giant looked up. His long golden beard was plaited into dozens of tiny braids and spangled with shimmering bits of gold. The eponymous orange flecks in his blue irises were clearly visible. Hakon’s fire-eyes swept about crazily, as dangerous as weapons, and finally targeted Jarl Rognvald. Hakon’s thick,