Part 13 (1/2)

Between hostilities, the Varangians occasionally raided Slav villages, selling their captives as slaves to the Greeks. Gunnlag laughed after he told me that. It had seemed, he said, as if the Greeks had all the gold in the world. So when his chief had a falling out with Jarisleif, their band had gone south in boats, down a great river to the Black Sea.

It had been a dangerous trip. The southernmost end of the river flowed through gra.s.slands held by the Patzinaks-dark fierce horse barbarians who grazed their herds there. Reaching the Black Sea, the Varangians had rowed to Miklagard to take service with the Greek Emperor. Miklagard had proved everything men said of it.

Gunnlag c.o.c.ked an eye at me then. ”Surely you have been to Miklagard.

How could one come here from India and not visit Miklagard?”

”Through the sky,” I told him. ”Through the sky.” And he believed me, or that's how it looked, anyway, because after probing me with his eyes for a moment, he nodded.

He'd fought for the Emperor for eight years, Gunnlag told me, then had s.h.i.+pped home to Sweden. With the gold he took with him, he'd had this s.h.i.+p built on a great lake called Vanern, then rode it down the river Gota to the Northern Sea. In his youth, the old man who'd built it had built s.h.i.+ps for the last of the Vikings. This one was built much like them, for ease of rowing, but a bit broader and deeper of keel for long sea voyages. By having his pa.s.sengers row when the winds were not favorable, the trips went faster and there was less quarreling on board.

This had been Gunnlag's third voyage carrying pilgrims to the Holy Land. But when they had stopped at Crete, they'd been told by an admiral of the Byzantine Emperor that pilgrims landing in the Holy Land recently had been sold into slavery there. The Emperor was gathering a new army to punish the Saracens for it, and surely those who took part would be rewarded not only with gold in this life but with Heaven afterward.

Most of the Swedes had planned to go to Miklagard anyway, after first visiting the holy city of Jorsala where the Christ had died. Instead, following this bad news, they went directly to Miklagard, where most of them entered service in a Varangian regiment. Gunnlag had rec rewed his s.h.i.+p with Varangian veterans wis.h.i.+ng to return to the lands of their birth. Now, aboard s.h.i.+p, there were not only men from Sweden, but from Denmark, Norway, and even distant Iceland, all speaking dialects of Norse. There were even two who'd been born in the Rhos land and had never seen the home of their fathers, though they could speak their tongue.

That night, lying chilled in the bottom of the long s.h.i.+p, I couldn't help wondering if the Fanglithans would ever become civilized. But then I remembered Brother Oliver and the monks, and Isaac ben Abraham.

And back in Normandy, Father Drogo and Pierre the tanner, each of them a man of peace. Maybe dominance by warlike cultures was just a phase, one that Fanglith would have to live through.

Then what phase was the Federation-turned-Empire in? Was tyranny just a phase? If it was, it had been recurring for a long time. And meanwhile, I told myself, what I needed was warriors. The Glondis Empire made slaves of peaceful people.

TWENTY-TWO.

The next morning I was so stiff and sore I couldn't believe it. Me, who'd always been so good at athletics, who'd been one of the stronger kids in school! I could hardly close my hands or pick up food with them. About my only consolation was that I wasn't the only one. Michael and Arno weren't moving around too well either. I don't suppose Arno's sword-callused right hand was peeled raw like mine, but I wasn't so sure about his left.

One of the Varangians grinned at us and said something in Norse. Arno had been practicing the language, and seemed to be doing pretty well, so I asked him what the man had said. ”He said the oar does that to you, when you're not used to it. And that the best cure for the oar is the oar. Yesterday one of them told me they were all sore the second day out of Miklagard.”

I examined my hands-an oozing mess. I got another bucket of salt water to soak them, then just sort of flexed and un flexed them to limber them up before using the oar again.

The first minute was the worst, as far as pain was concerned.

As I rowed, I thought of the young slave oarsman that Deneen and Tarel had rescued. He must be pretty tough, I decided. I hoped he didn't cause any problems on their wilderness island. In Deneen's description, though, Moise had sounded all right. And Bubba had approved of him; that was the best a.s.surance I could ask for.

By mid-morning my muscles weren't nearly as sore, although I was tired again, and even my hands felt better. As I had the day before, I soaked them in salt water for a while after each s.h.i.+ft. We were finis.h.i.+ng off our lunch when one of the Varangians saw sails to the southwest. They were triangular-two at first, and quickly two more. If we kept our present course, we'd just about run into them.

Gunnlag began shouting orders. Then, pulling on his steering oar, he put us into a long turn toward the north. The other rowing s.h.i.+ft moved quickly to their oars. Of my s.h.i.+ft, some began lowering the spar and sail, while others hauled furiously on the tow rope, taking in the slack that formed before the horse s.h.i.+p's steersman could match our turn. Arno ran to the stern of the long s.h.i.+p, his expression a mixture of chagrin and determination.

I saw Michael questioning a Varangian, and went over to him. ”What is it?” I asked.

”The captain believes the sails are a Saracen fleet, and I think he is right. If that is so, we will have to abandon the prize s.h.i.+p and flee, else we will be taken.”

Abandon the horse s.h.i.+p, and Arno's herd! Meanwhile, Gunnlag was determined to pick up his men aboard her. By that time I could see seven or eight sails, and surely they had seen ours. I grabbed the braided leather rope and helped pull; under the circ.u.mstances, I almost forgot how sore my hands were.

When we'd completed our turn, the oarsmen slowed until we'd pulled the prize s.h.i.+p's bow against our stern. As soon as they b.u.mped, Arno vaulted across, and I thought I knew why: He wanted to find the spare charge cylinders for the blast pistol. Meanwhile the Varangian prize crew was scrambling aboard the long s.h.i.+p, but not the Greek crew; they were staying! Whether by choice or Varangian order, I didn't know. When the last Varangian was aboard, one of them raised his sword to cut the rope-and Arno wasn't back aboard yet! I grabbed the Varangian's sword arm and began yelling.

”Arno!” I yelled. ”For G.o.d's sake, get back here! They're going to cut the rope!” The Varangian stared, bug-eyed and indignant, for just a second, then aimed a punch at my head with his free hand, but I ducked it. Gunnlag shouted at him, then across at Arno in Norse, and the man I had hold of stopped trying to shake me loose. A moment later Arno came out of the hold and leaped aboard. Another Varangian cleft the rope.

”They were not there!” he said. ”Someone must have thrown them overboard, else I'd have found them.” His eyes were blazing. ”If I had them, I could drive back the entire Saracen fleet. Then I'd take over this s.h.i.+p and make them row us to Palermo as my prize!”

I didn't argue with him. For one thing, there wasn't time. By then the mast was lying in the Song s.h.i.+p's bottom with the spar and sails, and Gunnlag ordered all oars manned. It was plain how things were shaping up. Maybe twenty sails were visible now, and I had no reason to think there weren't more. Five others had dropped their sails and veered toward us-five of those nearest the front. Obviously they were being rowed, which meant they were either wars.h.i.+ps or pirates. And I presumed that pirates didn't travel in large fleets.

One of the Varangians was handing oars to my s.h.i.+ft, and we added our strength to the rowing. The graceful long s.h.i.+p surged, almost seeming to fly on the water. It occurred to me how relative things are-how much they depend on your local frame of reference. Even in ma.s.s proximity mode the Javelin could travel in minutes a distance as far as from Fanglith to her moon, and we thought of ma.s.s proximity mode as slow. Here we were traveling-what? Not more than than ten miles an hour, I thought, and it seemed fast.

After a few minutes, Gunnlag's big voice called again, and the bosun slowed our pace a few strokes a minute. We might have to stay ahead of our pursuers for hours, I realized, and it wouldn't do to use ourselves up at the start. I glanced up to see what I could see, which under the circ.u.mstances wasn't much. They'd struck their masts too. I returned my full attention to rowing; I had to keep the stroke and not miss the water with my oar.

Meanwhile we had spare men. There hadn't been oars for all of my s.h.i.+ft, and now we had the prize crew aboard as well. So after a while some of us were replaced at our oars to rest, including all three of us nonVarangians. Ordinarily, the Varangians didn't mind rowing, and considering that this was a matter of escape or die, they probably wanted the best oarsmen on the oars. Which didn't include Michael and me, or even Amo.

I took half a minute to try contacting Deneen, on the off chance she was somehow powered up and tuned in, but got no answer. Then I followed Arno back to Gunnlag Snorrason in the stern, with Michael behind me. Most of the Saracen fleet was out of sight again; apparently they'd continued on their original northwesterly course. Judging from the sun, we seemed to have veered all the way around to somewhat east of north.

Only three of our original five pursuers could be seen. I suppose the other two had turned aside to capture the horse s.h.i.+p. But the remaining three, I told myself, ought to be more than enough, considering that Arno had no replacement charges for his blaster. And their bows had a lot longer range than my stunner; it was only effective up close.

Arno was talking to Gunnlag in Norse-he'd gotten pretty good at it-and of course I couldn't understand.

So I questioned Michael. From what he said, I got the impression that a wars.h.i.+p was more of a troop carrier loaded with infantry than it was a fighting s.h.i.+p. Lots of naval battles on Fanglith amounted to boarding the enemy with your troops and fighting it out with swords. Any one of our pursuers would have two or three times as many fighting men as we had, maybe more.

No, he said, the Saracens were not the fighters the Varangians were. Mostly they were men of smaller frame, less brawny and not so savage, wearing lighter mail and wielding lighter weapons. That much was well known.

But they were brave and skilled, and when they caught us they'd be fresh, because slaves did their rowing.

Could slaves row as hard as the Varangians? I asked. Michael thought not-Byzantine slaves couldn't anyway. But the dromans, the big Saracen wars.h.i.+ps, had as many as fifty great oars each, each pulled by two men, with the whip to inspire any who didn't pull hard enough.

After a while we sat down at the oars again for about an hour. The next time I was relieved, the Saracens had gained quite a bit. The Varangians who weren't rowing were arguing with each other and with Gunnlag. Michael explained that some of them wanted to stand and fight while others thought we ought to keep running.

It seems that Arno had told them earlier that the Normans held most of Sicily now-probably including the part we were headed for. Even if they didn't, a strong party of determined warriors might make their way to Norman territory. And Roger, the Count of Sicily, who was notoriously generous, would be glad to hire Varangians in his army, or help them continue home as Christian pilgrims.

Those who wanted to run figured we might reach Sicily, and that if we were about to get caught, then we could stand and fight. Those who wanted to make a stand now figured we didn't have a chance to reach Sicily, and they wanted to fight before they got any more tired from rowing. They a.s.sumed they were going to get killed anyway, and they wanted to kill as many Saracens as they could while they were at it.

Michael told me the Varangians were famous for never surrendering. According to him, the most dangerous thing you could do was trap Varangians.

Finally, Gunnlag had heard enough, and bellowed one short command. The argument thinned down to a few ”last words” by some of his men to some of the others, then stopped. We kept going.

Arno went up to the bow. I followed and sat down next to him. ”What decided the argument?” I asked.

He looked at me and grinned, reminding me of the Arno I'd seen before a few times-happy-go-lucky.

”I told Gunnlag that if we stopped, the Saracens would come up on us all at once. But if we kept running, they'd probably come up on us one at a time. And that one at a time I could use the device you gave me to sink them or drive them away.”

He took it out of its holster and looked at it thoughtfully, slipping the silent safeties off and on. ”It isn't accurate at a distance, and without the recharge cylinders”-he used the Evdas.h.i.+an words for them, of course-”I must make each shot count, which means we must be close, within reach of their arrows. If they come at us all at once, we'll be under heavy fire, and these”-he gestured around to indicate the Varangians- ”would stop rowing to fight. We would surely be taken then.

”Not that I explained all that to Gunnlag. Best he thinks of this as thaumaturgy instead of the handwork of some weapons artificer.”

That took me by surprise. I'd a.s.sumed that Arno himself still thought of it as magic.