Swords From the Sea (85 page)

Her city of Constantinople was the queen city of the world, the ghost of the Rome that had been overrun by barbarians seven centuries before. The people liked her because she was magnificent and careless and generous. She gave away islands to her courtiers and golden shields to the barbarian Goths who pleased her. In amusing herself she entertained all Constantinople, with water festivals on the Bosporus, and especially the games in the Hippodrome. Secretly, she longed for the vaster amusements of the Caesars of Rome who had matched war galleys in mimic sea fights, and had armed women with swords and spears to struggle for their lives in the arena. That, Zoe thought, would be stimulating.

"What is that?" she demanded.

Below her, at the entrance of the royal box, a group of men had pushed past the guards. These men towered above the guards; they had long hair and wore uncouth mantles. Fair, grim men they were, who walked with long strides toward some empty seats.

Their leader was young. The skin of his throat gleamed white against the fiery red of his hair, and he laughed as he came forward.

The black boys swinging the peacock feather fans behind the Empress ceased their motion. The eunuch who sat at her feet veiled his eyes as he turned toward her, as if dazed by looking into the sun.

"Radiant Magnificence," the eunuch sucked in his breath respectfully, "they are some new barbarians. I will have them driven out-"

He was rising to hasten down to do this when Zoe cried to him impatiently: "Nay, fool, summon them here."

But the eunuch, surprisingly, hesitated. "They are war-wagers from the sea. They have not set foot in Constantinople before. Their leader is called the Unruly, and if it please Your Magnificence-"

"Then bring the chieftain alone." All that the eunuch said only made Zoe more determined to meet the red-haired giant who had pushed past her guards.

The man called the Unruly uttered an exclamation in his deep voice. Zoe wondered what he might be. She knew the yellow-maned Goths who served in the army, the fierce Alans and the Bulgars and the silent Tatars, but she had never encountered a barbarian so masterful as this flamingeyed youth who stood poised upon her platform as if it were the afterdeck of a ship at sea-he the master of the ship.

"By Sergius and Bacchus," she said, "what is he? Fetch me someone who knows his speech."

The eunuch vanished, leaving the red chieftain and the Empress contemplating one the other in silence. He returned with an English officer of the cataphracts, the mailed cavalry of Constantinople. The officer wore a gilded breastplate and a helmet with scarlet plumes, and he raised the back of his hand to his eyes as he bowed before Zoe's couch. The barbarian looked at him in surprise.

"Ask him what man he is, whence he cometh, and why he thrusts aside Iny guards to seek me," she demanded.

The English mercenary spoke to the stranger, who considered a moment. Then, raising his head, he began to chant:

"He sings," the officer lied discreetly to Zoe, "his amazement at the beauty of the Most Imperial. He hath sailed many seas and looked upon the faces of the women of a dozen cities, yet never hath he beheld so fair a face."

"Who is he?" Zoe asked, pleased.

"The younger brother of a Norse king, driven from his own land to seek his fortune upon the sea." The officer had heard of the exploits of this dour Harald, who had raised havoc along the shores of the Mediterranean.

Zoe glanced up at the Norseman. "How crude and how daring! Truly he must have a gift for his song. Maria, give the royal barbarian something from the table-that enameled cup."

From the obscurity behind the couch a quiet girl rose, picking up a goblet.

"Witless! " exclaimed Zoe. "Fill it with wine of Chios for him!"

Harald the Unruly took the goblet readily enough. "Hail!" he cried, and quaffed it down. When he handed it back to the girl, she shook her head. Perhaps because all the people were looking at her, and she dreaded the anger of the Empress, her aunt, a flush spread from her throat into her cheeks. Harald considered her in silence.

"Stupid!" whispered Zoe. "Did I say to make eyes at this great brute? Go back to thy place."

The girl turned away quickly, and the English officer explained to the stranger.

"Nay, Lord Harald, the cup is thine gift from the Empress."

Harald smiled. It was a rare and goodly cup. When he smiled, his bleak eyes softened. From his bare arm he pulled the gold ring inscribed with runes and offered it to Zoe.

"Say, thou with the feathers," he demanded, "where sits the Emperor who is overlord of all this?"

"There is no overlord. She, the Empress, rules alone."

"A woman!" Harald could not understand how a woman without a husband could keep order in a city so vast that all the men of Norway would not people it. The army of the Norse king would not fill a single side of this arena.

"It is clear," he remarked, "that the man who could win this Empress for a bride would sit in honor."

"Aye," the Englishman admitted, "if he could rule this Empress."

That, Harald thought, would be simple to do. Women could manage about a homestead well enough, and rear children, but no woman could be mightier than a man.

Zoe knew that they were talking about her. She no longer felt listless; in fact, she was conscious of a thrill of interest as she tried the great ring of the Norse chieftain on her slender arm. "Ask him," she demanded, "what he thinks of my sports?"

Both men turned to look down at the arena. Small figures were struggling, in couples, upon the raked-over sand. Some were striking with leadbound fists, others were wrestling. Down the straightaway, athletes hurled javelins high into the air while clowns dressed in the skins of beasts ran away in pretended fear.

The Englishman knew that this Harald could cast a spear sixty paces with either hand. He could go round a ship on the oars when the men were rowing.

"He says," the Englishman informed Zoe, "that all this is sport for slaves."

Zoe pouted. She rather agreed with the strange warrior, but it piqued her that the Norse chieftain should be contemptuous of her athletes.

"Let Antiochus appear-at once!" she commanded, sitting up.

Presently the crowd also stirred, and a shout went up. The fist-fighters withdrew from the arena before the imperial box, and a strange figure walked into the cleared space. A heavy, round helmet covered his head and the nape of his neck. His right arm and shoulder were encased in scale mail, held in place by leather bands. A kilt of silvered scales covered his hips. His left arm bore a small, round shield, and his right hand held a short, straight sword.

Coming below the Empress, he sheathed his sword and extended his right arm toward her, as he called out something in a deep voice.

"He says," the Englishman whispered to Harald, "that he, who is about to die, salutes the Empress."

"What is he?" Harald asked in surprise.

"A gladiator. A swordsman."

Silence settled down upon the arena when Antiochus the gladiator faced his opponent, an Ethiopian, naked to the waist, armed with a longer sword but without a shield. The big black soon worked himself into a frenzy, leaping in and out with the swiftness of a panther

Zoe, biting hard upon her lip, leaned forward, her eyes glued to the bodies of the two men. But Harald, after the first moment, understood that the Ethiopian was doomed. In spite of his physical strength and quickness, he handled his weapon clumsily. Antiochus, although he kept his sword and shield close to his body and hardly seemed to move, was the faster fighter, and at home with steel ... Suddenly the gladiator's short sword licked out and thrust deep into the heaving chest of the black. Antiochus stepped back and looked up at the imperial box.

As Zoe extended her hand, thumb down, she felt a pleasant, irresistible thrill. In spite of the stupid priests who protested every time she did this, she could not resist the final thrill that her ancestors, the Caesars of Rome, had enjoyed without restraint.

The crowd rose to its feet, jostling to see down into the arena. Women bit at their clenched hands, their faces flushed.

The tall Ethiopian was sitting down, as if tired. Antiochus sheathed his sword and drew a slender dagger. Going to the wounded black he cut the man's throat with a deft slash and blood spurted out upon the sand.

"Ah," Zoe whispered. "Antiochus!"

Then the imperial box below her surged violently. The Norse chieftain was leaping down from bench to bench, thrusting nobles and servants aside. He vaulted the arena rail and strode toward Antiochus, who was wiping the dagger clean.

"It was a foul stroke," Harald said, "to slit the gullet of a stricken man."

Antiochus merely looked at him. The gladiator did not understand the Norseman's speech. So Harald dealt him a buffet against the jaw and he fell heavily. With startling swiftness he got to his feet, his sword out, his heavy face a mask of rage. Standing before him, Harald saw how broad he was in the shoulders, and how the muscles knotted when he moved his arm.

One after the other the ten Norsemen leaped the rail, to run to their chieftain. They drew their swords and lifted their shields and they formed a ring about Harald. Greek guards and officers had rushed into the arena, to come between the fighters. Above the tumult Zoe's high voice was heard, and presently the Englishman thrust his way through to Harald.

"Art mad, lordling?" he grunted, "To strike the gladiator! Now, the Empress bids thee to her box."

By then the guards hemmed in the Norsemen, separating them from the fighters of the arena. Harald accompanied the Englishman back to Zoe, who stared at him with new interest. The afternoon had proved a delightful surprise to her.

She explained that Antiochus had challenged to a death combat the barbarian who had struck him.

"It seems to me," Harald answered, "that he goes about it with much bother. He struck a foul blow before me, and that will be his bane. Call off these gilt lads, thy guardsmen, and we will fight easily enough."

"Knowest thou," she retorted, "that Antiochus hath fought more than three score? Some escaped with wounds and some he maimed, but eight and twenty he bath slain."

"Then it is time he met his match."

"If you must-" Zoe thought how entrancing it would be to see two such men in a death struggle. To see this violent youth cut down by the invincible gladiator, or to watch Antiochus meet his end there below her in the sand where he had always prevailed. "Let it be tomorrow after the gladiator hath rested. Tomorrow at this hour."

A sudden impulse seized her. "And the reward will be the favor of the fairest woman of Constantinople of the victor's choosing."

If the two champions fought for her favor, Zoe could relish the combat to the full.

A sigh and a stir went through the stands of the Hippodrome after the last chariot had been led out. Two men stood beneath the royal box, their shadows stretching over the hard-packed sand.

"Hail, Empress," chanted Antiochus, "I who am about to die salute thee!"

The crowd had heard that salutation often. All eyes were on the redhaired youth beside the gladiator. The Norseman wore no armor except for a steel cap; on his left arm he carried a shield, and his right hand held a long, straight sword. Although he had towered above the nobles in the royal box, he looked slight beside the heavy gladiator.

Beneath the purple canopy Zoe feasted her eyes on the two fighters, and gave a signal to the master of the games. Silver trumpets blared and the Norseman and the gladiator faced each other. They did not move. They stood like stone figures.

The Norseman took the first step forward, clashing his sword against his shield. Then Antiochus sprang.

Through the air he hurled his weight, to smite shield against shield and overthrow the Norseman. But Harald leaped back and the shields only clashed lightly. Antiochus thrust low with his short sword, and Harald brought his own blade down, driving the point of the gladiator's into the sand. He stamped his foot against the gladiator's sword, to pin it there.

The gladiator was too wary. He freed his blade and lunged back in time.

Harald pressed him, slashing to get home on that bare throat or to hew into the ribs on the unguarded right side. The skill of the Norseman lay only in attack ... Crouched by the arena rail, Ulf the Strong, Harald's lieutenant, quivered and grunted as he watched the smashing blows. Ulf knew the force of those blows. He could see the sinews standing out on the legs of the straining men. He saw more than that. He saw that Antiochus was not tiring. He saw that from time to time the gladiator's short sword licked at Harald's bare right arm. Twice, thrice, cuts appeared on the Norseman's forearm. Blood began to drip from the cuts. And Ulf's fingers clenched in the sand. For with that blood the strength was draining from Harald's sword arm. Muscles had been severed and Harald's blows were growing weaker.

Antiochus crouched lower. He thrust his blade strongly against the Norseman's sword, to test the strength of the failing arm.

The Norseman gave way. His useless sword arm quivered and suddenly the crowd behind Ulf began to roar, sensing the moment of the kill. Harald leaped away and slipped his shield down to his left hand. Swiftly he flung the great shield at the gladiator's head. Antiochus dodged and came on again.