Varangians (1)
The Tagma Ton Varangon. To the public, they were known as the Varangian Guard, but in truth, they were a central field force under direct imperial control. That was why they were called the Tagma Ton Varangon—or simply the Varangians. The Varangians were men from Northern Europe, Nordics, who pillaged across the continent but also served as mercenaries. As a result, many found work as sellswords within the Eastern Roman Empire. They were little more than a mercenary unit... but.
"They're essentially hostages, aren't they?"
Geoffrey looked at me apologetically. The Eastern Roman Emperor Basil II. When he was just twenty-one, during the rebellion led by Bardas Phokas that devastated his forces, he had sought aid from Grand Prince Vladimir I of Kiev Rus. The Varangians who joined that campaign helped the emperor crush the Phokas revolt, sparking his interest in them. Unlike the nobles who constantly plotted rebellions, these Vikings fulfilled their duties as mercenaries without a care for power. From the emperor's perspective, there were no more reliable soldiers.
For that reason, he began incorporating the mercenary-heavy Varangians into the regular army as a foreign legion. Manuel, whom we'd met before, seemed inspired by this policy, emphasizing noble obligations to press for our service.
"We must refuse outright, brother. This is a divide-and-conquer tactic meant to split us apart."
Humphrey's words drew a silent nod from Geoffrey. Thanks to our negotiations with Manuel, we'd been granted the title of katepano of Italia, overseeing Sicily, Calabria, Campania, Apulia, and Basilicata. In Western feudal terms, it was equivalent to a duchy. But since it was a hollow title, considering the scale of Reggio Calabria we'd actually conquered, it was more fitting to view it as a county. Even so, for us—who needed legitimacy for our conquests—it was an essential rank.
"It's a title we absolutely need. With this alone, we can establish our own kingdom in southern Italy."
Humphrey stared at me as if questioning my sincerity.
"You could die for it. Land isn't more important than my brother. Isn't that right, brother?"
"We must think rationally. Accepting the Eastern Roman Empire's offer will make things easier. Don't forget why we left our homeland for this land, Humphrey."
The argument heated up. Geoffrey rose to his feet.
"Enough, both of you."
The eldest brother's command. Humphrey and I halted our bickering and stepped back.
"The Eastern Romans are using this empty title to hold you hostage and keep us on a leash."
Humphrey nodded at Geoffrey's words.
"We absolutely cannot accept."
"But we're just getting started. Refusing could bring unknown retribution from Rome."
An Eastern Roman offensive. We'd escaped by luck last time, but against their full might, we—barely taking our first steps—would crumble.
"Robert."
"Yes, brother."
"They want you. So I'll leave the decision to you."
All eyes turned to me. Everything hinged on my choice. Feeling the weight, I drew a deep breath. Then, gazing at them all, I murmured softly.
"Whoa, there are so many people! My lord!"
Alberto, acting every bit the middle-schooler with his fussing. Constantine I, who ended the 324 civil wars. He had abandoned the declining Rome and relocated to a city at the edge of the Balkan Peninsula. Konstantinoupolis (Κωνσταντινούπολις). In modern times, known as Constantinople or Constantinopolis. It grew into a world-renowned metropolis, the Queen of Cities. Now, it was simply the City.
Exact population figures were unknown, but estimates put it at around 120,000 residents. Compared to Paris's 30,000, London's 10,000, and Rome's 30,000, it was undoubtedly Europe's largest city. With throngs of people I'd never seen before milling about, even my eyes spun. No wonder Alberto couldn't look away. I couldn't help but question if bringing this kid as my squire had been a good idea.
"Stop making a fuss."
"S-sorry, my lord."
He said that, but he was still gawking around. One of the Vikings trailing behind spoke up.
"Can we really get rich serving here?"
"I heard a relative made a fortune as a soldier here, but I was skeptical..."
About twenty Vikings had followed me. They were here to serve in the Varangian Guard alongside me. Originally plunderers under Geoffrey and Humphrey, after the conquest of Reggio Calabria, I'd cherry-picked the malcontents and reorganized them under my command. Purging dissenters, officially under the pretext of aiding me.
"See that soldier over there?"
The Viking glanced where I pointed. He looked utterly ordinary. But one difference from us Vikings: a slight paunch. A soldier with a belly. Unthinkable for Vikings. So impoverished we pillaged to survive, anyone with a gut screamed wealth. Yet a soldier training daily for battle had one? Beyond lax discipline, it made them wonder how abundant food must be for even troops to carry extra weight.
"They say Eastern Roman soldiers eat three meals a day."
"Three meals a day...!"
"How rich must they be."
Even in modern times, plenty of countries couldn't manage three squares. But back then, Romans ate three meals plus snacks.
"If rank-and-file get that, imagine the imperial guard's pay."
The Vikings shut their mouths, complaints forgotten. And so we arrived at the Great Palace of Constantinople (Mega Palation). In front lay the Hippodrome of Constantinople (Hippodromos tes Konstantinoupoleos), where four chariot teams backed by the Senate raced. Behind stood Hagia Sophia (Hagia Sophia), the largest cathedral until Seville's in the 16th century. Its overwhelming grandeur rivaled modern architecture; my companions and I gaped.
"This is Rome..."
"Did men really build this...?"
The Vikings were stunned. To northern Germans used to timber homes, erecting such massive, beautiful stone structures was shocking. As we marveled, someone approached from behind.
"Rome's architecture is magnificent, isn't it?"
A man leaning on a staff. He wore a deep blue cylindrical dress wrapped in red velvet, topped with a matching hat. Garish yet orderly—unmistakably high official attire. Manuel Erotikos Komnenos. The senior bureaucrat from our fleet negotiations. I hadn't known his identity then and had been bold; learning it later shocked me. Komnenos: a family favored by Emperor Basil II, progenitors of the future Komnenian dynasty. Not him in old age, of course—his eldest son Isaac I would found it. But history seemed altered; I recalled Manuel dying young, yet here he was elderly. My brothers alone defied recorded ages.
Irrelevant now. The emperor's right hand had spoken; courtesy demanded reply.
"Magnificent doesn't cover it—it's awe-inspiring."
"You know flattery too."
His laugh prompted a cough from his aide, Angelos Moselaph.
"His Majesty awaits."
"Right, forgot. Old age scatters the mind."
The aged general replied playfully, then addressed me.
"The Basileus wishes to see you personally."
Basil II himself? I stared at Manuel, expression screaming really?
"It's true. Remember what I say now."
He'd drill court etiquette for the audience. I leaned in to listen.
"Don't speak first—wait for His Majesty to open."
Universal etiquette. I nodded. Manuel continued with protocols. As he wrapped up, his tone turned grave.
"Never lie to His Majesty. The moment you do, your life is forfeit."
With that final warning, we entered the Great Palace. Alert soldiers lined both sides. Per security, we surrendered weapons and were escorted to the emperor. In the audience chamber stood a massive Roman-style sofa, the akoubita, with nineteen legs. Purple drapes. Beneath, a man reclined indifferently, hearing reports. Casual attire, but embroidered loros marked nobility—purple-born.
His eyes met ours. He dismissed the official and rose. Average build, balanced frame. Arched brows and sky-blue eyes stood out.
"You've arrived."
Our first meeting with the Eastern Roman ruler, Basil II.