Varangians (2): The Emperor's Ruthless Efficiency
Basil II. The 96th emperor of the Roman Empire. A legendary general who expanded the empire's borders to Armenia and crushed the Bulgarian Empire, solidifying control over the Balkans. Economically astute as well, he amassed enough reserves during his reign to cover two full years of the empire's budget. He was infamous for despising pomp and ceremony—living a life of extreme asceticism with no mistresses, which was rare in Eastern Rome at the time. He even shunned luxury, hoarding his wealth without spending it, and reportedly never bathed. To an ordinary man, he'd be hailed as exemplary. But Basil II was emperor.
In triumphs his soldiers rightfully deserved, he forbade even applause. An emperor obsessed with utmost efficiency. His emotionless demeanor and austere lifestyle led nobles and commoners alike to view him as little more than a machine. Of course, the emperor before me now hadn't reached that point yet. In his late thirties, he wore the hollow-eyed expression of a mid-level manager burned out from corporate drudgery.
"Do you handle weapons well?"
The emperor's question. I answered immediately.
"I do."
"Good. Any illnesses or injuries?"
"None."
"Good. Training three times a week, mock battles once. Can you make the times?"
"I can."
"Good. Sign here."
He handed a contract to the nearby bureaucrat, who approached and gave me a parchment thick with text and a pen.
Basileus Basil II, ruler of Eastern Rome and legitimate sovereign of Rome...
— Attend all trainings diligently.
— Participate in combat when required.
— Obey the emperor's commands.
— Refrain from rebellion.
Compared to other nations' florid verbiage, it was starkly absent here—almost like a corporate employment contract in its brevity. The terms were straightforward: attend training, fight when called, obey the emperor, no revolts. Such was his obsession with efficiency that the text fit precisely on the front of a single parchment. Parchment was precious back then, inked expensively, so the emperor minimized fluff to maximize substance. Utmost efficiency.
My impression of the emperor went beyond mere frugality; he was a man who simply loved doing things efficiently.
"The contract is sealed. Escort them to the Scholae Palatinae."
Unlike my tension, the first meeting ended swiftly. The emperor dismissed us as if we were no longer his concern and returned to his work. Manuel and Angelos, accustomed to such encounters, bowed and led us out.
"His Majesty seems pleased. That's fortunate," Manuel remarked.
His words triggered an instant gut feeling that something was off.
"More boring than I expected..."
Life in the Scholae Palatinae—the empire's military academy and barracks—was surprisingly dull. Rise at dawn for a run, basic weapons drill, lunch. Personal time, then evening group training to close the day. By the sundial, everything wrapped around 2 p.m., give or take.
I'd served as an officer in my homeland despite U.S. citizenship, so this military routine wasn't grueling. With free time aplenty, I finally got a moment to inspect my face. Tall frame, ordinary features—common in Sweden or Denmark. But the thick beard gave me a fierce, villainous look. Trim it, and I'd be handsome. Shaving in this era would mark me as an oddity, though, so I endured.
With time on my hands, other thoughts surfaced.
"No wonder the soldiers get fat."
I could see why the tagmata—professional standing armies hired by the state—were so popular. Two meals a day, pay, and work that wasn't backbreaking.
"Exactly. Free room and board, easy duty—who wouldn't love it?"
Some tagmata even commuted from nearby homes instead of barracks. But we Vikings from afar lacked that option, so we stayed put. They seemed thrilled with the setup.
"Living in luxury like this? I'd stay forever."
"Yeah, yeah. Warmer and cozier than bug-infested log huts by miles."
Northern life was harsh—not just rugged, but the living conditions themselves. Mostly wooden structures, full of discomforts. Here, Roman engineering shone: sturdy cement buildings, plush beds. Perfection.
"Fat's inevitable."
"I might plump up from all this comfort."
"Gotta earn big and head home."
To them, we Vikings were like foreign laborers. Unlike locals, they burned with desire to return enriched. Even in original history, kin long unseen married in Miklagard—Constantinople—swore fealty to the emperor, and settled there. Tales of success that shaped Norse legacy. By the 11th century, the Viking twilight had come; raiding riches dried up. My brothers and I trekked from northern France to distant Italy because we'd drawn no land. Medieval knights' rise made us less dominant on fields—our scrape with Duke Gerard proved it; we struggled against armored cavalry.
Thus, modern Vikings' paths diverged sharply. Without seizing land via siege, enlisting in a Varangian unit like this was peak success.
"It's the easy road, sure."
Unlike my carefree comrades, unease gnawed at me. Knowing the future, I understood Eastern Rome better than most.
"Civil wars, and more civil wars."
While others shifted to feudalism, it clung to centralization—a modern virtue, but in medieval times, it bred peril. Emperors drew covetous eyes from power brokers. Even current emperor Basil II faced rebellion from Skleros before age twenty. Provincial governors routinely revolted for the throne. Vast territories meant crushing military costs against neighbors eyeing Rome: Bulgarian revolts, Muslim incursions. Internal strife, external threats—without a strong emperor, chaos reigned.
"Being hostages in a civil war hotspot isn't ideal..."
For House Hauteville outsiders to solidify Reggio Calabria's hold, time was essential. Unwillingly stuck here, I had to buy it.
"To survive this place, one path only."
Build influence within Rome. That meant catching the emperor's eye.
"Planned to shine in training, but with so few sessions..."
No chances to impress. The Varangians, elite guards, rarely saw frontline action unless the emperor led personally.
As I pondered, a servant approached lugging a stack of documents. Ahead strode Angelos, face sour.
Of imperial faces I knew, only Angelos and Manuel. The latter, the emperor's right hand, wasn't casually accessible. Angelos was my sole prospect.
"Angelos."
I approached; he scowled as if spotting vermin.
"Don't call me that, foreigner. You're His Majesty's guard now—address me as 'sir' per protocol, no?"
He craved the "sir." Placate him, yes—but not yield easily.
"If as Varangian captain you demand protocol... shouldn't you call me 'Sir Robert,' not foreigner?"
Mercenaries held no Roman ranks, but as noble hostages, I could claim Varangian command—effectively guard captain. Two ranks above his tribune.
Angelos flushed, realizing his slip.
"Ah... er... S-Sir R-Robert... I was rude..."
As shame reddened his face, I raised a hand in mercy.
"Just teasing. Kidding. I'm a foreigner anyway—no need for ranks. Similar ages; let's be friends."
Suddenly friends. Refusing meant honoring a "barbarian" Norseman with titles Romans scorned. No choice. Calculating thus, Angelos nodded with an awkward smile.
"Y-Yeah, friends. Friends it is. Ha. Ha."
Hooked. Now, probe for opportunities.
"So, friend—looks busy. Need help?"
"Nothing too tough. Just His Majesty ordering a report compilation."
He gestured behind—the stack, reports from provinces.
"Report? What kind?"
"Can't say details, but condense that servant's height in reports into one volume."
Angelos looked incredulous.
Opportunity.
I smiled and proposed.
"Condensing to one? Easy. I can help."