Mercenary Band (2): The Holmgang of Authority
The more capital you had, the greater the profits. That was simple common sense.
So if the mercenaries refused to join the band and insisted on taking their own shares, I naturally wouldn't achieve the returns I'd anticipated. To prevent that, I employed one clever stratagem.
"Alberto's done quite well at his tasks."
Alberto, the boy soldier I'd taken as my retainer. He'd originally been sent to Angelos through my network of contacts, but with the war grinding into a lull, he'd returned to my service.
Having witnessed the staggering spoils from Ohrid, Alberto had come back with eyes full of resentment and regret. So I'd offered him a portion of my share, but he'd refused. Instead, he'd asked for a chance to prove himself.
"Who knew reading notices aloud could earn silver denarii."
Most mercenaries were illiterate, so announcements were usually conveyed by word of mouth. But Alberto had asked me to write a notice in my name, and I'd obliged. Afterward, I'd checked what he was up to—and the results were astonishing.
He'd been charging each mercenary a single silver denarius to read the notice aloud. Normally, they wouldn't pay even a single as—the equivalent of a copper coin—for such a thing. But flush with riches from the bountiful plunder, the mercenaries had gladly handed over their silver.
Thanks to that, without ever lifting a sword in combat, he'd earned far more than the lowliest squire who'd fought in the ranks.
"He's the sort who thrives anywhere you put him."
Those provocative eyes he'd flashed back in Messina. True to form, given a chance, Alberto proved his worth through action.
"I'll train him properly later and make him my adjutant."
He was still just a boy, lacking the physical strength for now. So I planned to wait until he filled out and grew taller—past sixteen—before giving him rigorous training to groom him as my right hand.
"Anyway..."
I rose from my seat. A mountain of tasks awaited.
Establishing the mercenary guild was one thing; finding investments was another. Of course, all that could wait until we returned to the East Roman Empire—it wasn't something we could do here right now. But I couldn't just sit idle either. Returning without a plan invited disaster, plain as day.
"Forget investments for now. First, I need to solidify the organization."
With that thought, I summoned the officers. Three men assembled promptly.
"You called for us?"
"Awaiting your orders."
"Need something?"
Alton, the new Pecheneg recruit. Bachana, the Alan who'd joined alongside him. And Bjorn, who'd served under Brother Humphrey and followed me to the East Roman lands.
Thus gathered the senior centurions and key adjutants of Tagma Ton Varangia.
"I assume you've all heard about the new mercenary band forming."
I cut straight to the point. The three nodded at once.
"No one's in the dark."
"All the Alan mercenaries have signed on."
"We'd follow your lead regardless."
As they said, every mercenary had joined the new band. Alberto's silver tongue had helped, but the real enabler was their indifference to the remaining spoils, sated as they were by the successful raid.
"Good. Before we head back to Constantinople, I want to restructure the band and establish proper order."
Organizational reform. "Establishing order" naturally meant enforcing a clear hierarchy.
"Enforce order?"
Bjorn eyed me quizzically. I smiled back at him.
"I know you see me as a brother because you followed Brother Humphrey. But we can't keep that up forever."
Vikings viewed comrades as brothers. But that applied among ourselves alone. With Pechenegs and Alans now integrated, a strict chain of command was essential.
"You want our formal respect."
"Not just you—all my brothers. I want to be acknowledged as jarl."
Jarl—the title of chieftain. Some Vikings already hailed me as such, but those loyal to my brothers saw me merely as a partner. That wouldn't do in a military unit. It undermined authority and could prevent disciplining deserters or rebels.
Perhaps I was overthinking it. But with my prestige at its peak, now was the time to make clear who stood above all.
"And if I refuse?"
"Leave the unit at once. Go back to Brother or your homeland—your choice. You'll get your share of the spoils."
Bjorn drew his axe. The gesture meant only one thing.
"I challenge you to holmgang."
Vikings who worked as merchants and mercenaries often formed bands across distant lands, leading to disputes over shares, ownership, honor, reparations, debts—the usual legal headaches. One resolution was holmgang.
This ritual duel could be challenged against anyone, regardless of status, for any offense. The recipient had three days to appear at the agreed site. Fleeing earned the insult of nīðingr—"coward" in Viking tongue—leading to banishment. The weak sometimes hired proxies via friends.
Showing up meant a fight to the death on a square hide. Stepping off meant instant loss. Kill or incapacitate to win.
Bjorn had invoked holmgang against me. Understanding full well, I rebuked him.
"You refuse to recognize my authority."
"Aye. You've won the emperor's favor and command of the Varangians, but that's mere contract—not proof you're our jarl."
"In this battle, I earned feats Valkyries would envy, bringing wealth to my brothers. You dismiss my achievements?"
"Those feats were forged in our blood, not yours alone."
Bjorn spouted sophistry. I pierced his true intent.
"You covet my position."
Silence from Bjorn. I'd thought the battle had won all hearts. But as in any group, dissenters lurked—especially ambitious ones like him. Betrayal stung, but better it surfaced now.
Why? Alton and Bachana watched our exchange without stirring. Vikings and nomads revered strength. They wanted me to prove my dominance over Bjorn in combat—to show I was worth following.
"Winner takes all. That's why you're saying this, right, Bjorn?"
"Of course. I'll win this holmgang and claim everything you have, Robert."
His greedy declaration. I answered by hefting my axe.
"Tomorrow, at that hill yonder—before the sun stands overhead. Be late, and it's forfeit as cowardice."
Word of the impending holmgang spread like wildfire, exciting the troops. Small wonder—the war with the Bulgarians had stalled.
Tagma Ton Logistikos was a supply unit, rarely in the thick of it. Skirmishes happened, but Nikephoros or Angelos handled those. Bored soldiers seized on this spectacle.
By noon, the hill swarmed with onlookers. Robert and Bjorn's duel was the talk of the camp.
"Who do you reckon wins?"
"Tough for Robert. Bjorn's a Jomsviking, no less."
Jomsvikings—the fiercest Norse warriors, bound by iron discipline and unmatched skill. Feared even among Vikings. Knowing Robert's youth and brains-over-brawn style, many bet on Bjorn.
Others disagreed: the new Alans and Pechenegs from Tagma Ton Logistikos, now in Tagma Ton Varangia.
"Lord Rogerius takes it."
The Alan spoke from experience—having ridden with Rogerius in the cavalry action, he'd seen him match Nestoric blow for blow.
Opinions split fifty-fifty. As all eyes fixed, the holmgang began.
Bjorn struck first, the veteran aiming low for Robert's waist. Robert twisted right, parrying, then swung a lateral slash in riposte.
Bjorn blocked as if expecting it, coiling for a diagonal overhead with full power. Robert looked doomed—soldiers figured he'd back off the hide and forfeit.
Then—a dull thud. From Bjorn's mouth.
"Guhk."
Robert's short, sharp kick to the gut. Staggered, Bjorn could only defend against the onslaught. A storm of blows, laced with tricky kicks. Bjorn crumbled to the ground.
He struggled up—but Robert's axe edge hovered at his throat.
"Die here. Or forfeit everything and flee, you fool."
Bjorn's answer: he bolted from the spot.