Mercenary Company (3)
“To think that fighting Nestoric would prove this useful.”
Bjorn, a Jomsviking native. Naturally, no one could surpass him in combat. Yet the reason Robert had managed to defeat him was the experience gained from that battle with Nestoric.
“I used kicks too, but I never knew the precise timing. Thanks to you, I learned a lot.”
In his duel with Nestoric, Robert had wielded a sword. Its advantage lay in attacking from multiple angles compared to an axe, but slipping a kick into every opening was incredibly difficult. Extend your leg carelessly, and it could be sliced clean off. But even in his advanced years, Nestoric had struck with pinpoint accuracy at those gaps, overwhelming Robert in the duel. In any case, that thorough thrashing had helped him beat Bjorn.
“Now that Bjorn's defeated, he poses no further threat to me.”
Bjorn had been one of the Vikings who served his brothers Humphrey and Geoffrey. Not only had he lost, but he'd forfeited and fled the Varangians, deserting the group. No one left among them would dare challenge Robert's authority now.
“By rights, military law demands execution...”
Desertion from the battlefield was a grave crime. Capturing and beheading him on the spot would have been justified, but Robert saw no need.
Fleeing the field was a worse sin than dodging a duel—especially for a Jomsviking, who prized discipline above all. In the mercenary world, it was tantamount to an unforgivable crime. Bjorn was effectively a nidingr now. Whatever revenge he might seek, he couldn't threaten Robert anymore.
As these thoughts crossed his mind, a voice called from outside. Robert emerged from the tent and headed toward the sound.
“What is it?”
Before him knelt a man who looked every inch a Viking, with guards blocking his path.
“I seek an audience with the jarl.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Halvar, brother of Bjorn the nidingr.”
“Very well, Halvar. What business brings you to me?”
Halvar slammed his forehead to the ground and bellowed.
“I come to atone with my life for my brother's shameful deed!”
Atone with his life? For a moment, Robert thought of some Japanese samurai, but this was commonplace among Vikings. A nidingr lost everything—family included. In the medieval world, kin were a form of property. The family's honor tarnished with it. If one became a nidingr, collective punishment applied, clouding Halvar's future too. The only remedy was begging mercy from the victor. Halvar staking his life to restore it was only natural.
“Your arrogant brother not only defied my authority but deserted the field, besmirching the Jomsvikings' honor. You think one life like yours can pay for such a crime?”
Bjorn deserved death. Taking a third party's life wouldn't settle it.
“I'll forfeit my share of the spoils.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Then how can I restore my house's honor?”
Robert pondered. Bjorn's flight had left the senior hundred-man commander's post for the Vikings vacant. Why not give it to Halvar? He held no grudge against the family, only Bjorn. A Jomsviking's brother would have skill and respect among them. Granting mercy now would bind Halvar to him for life.
With that calculation, Robert asked, “You called me jarl. Is that right?”
“Yes, jarl.”
“Will you serve me as your sole lord for life?”
A vassal oath. As Viking lord, he'd take Halvar as retainer.
Halvar rose, grasped a fistful of his beard, sliced it with a small dagger, and offered it with both hands, swearing fealty.
“Halvar Hastein swears before Odin to serve his lord, Robert Hauteville, for life, offering this beard as pledge.”
That familiar surname. The legendary Dane clan's name, lost to records after 896. Surely not. Shaking off the thought, Robert drew his sword for the Norman knighting ceremony.
“I, Jarl Robert Hauteville, take Halvar Hastein as my vassal, declaring it to the heavens.”
The blade touched head and shoulders. The knighting ended, and Robert gained his first knight—a Huscarl sworn to him, Halvar Hastein.
After the Holmgang uproar, the mercenary company was fully reorganized.
Alton's Pecheneg cavalry. Bachana's heavy Alan scouts. And Halvar's Viking infantry. Three senior hundred-men commanders would lead their units while serving as adjutants.
Total strength: around three hundred. Ideally, separate adjutants were needed, but talent was scarce. Young Alberto couldn't fill the role yet, so it was tabled.
“The company's founded, at least... Now, when do we head back?”
Days after sacking Bulgaria's capital, Ohrid, word arrived: Tsar Samuel I had fainted upon receiving Basil II's gift and died.
Samuel I met the same miserable end as in original history. With the emperor dead and disarmament done, the expedition—including supplies—was essentially over. Time to return.
They'd dismantled supply depots, recovered materiel, and prepped to go.
“The issue is when Angelos shows up.”
Supply units couldn't return alone post-war. By Commander Nikephoros's orders, they awaited Angelos, leading the left wing.
Back at the Evros River, ships afloat, they waited.
As Robert mused, dust rose in the distance—riders approaching.
“Wait long?”
“Sly Arab.”
“Arab? My ancestors hail from there, sure.”
Angelos dismounted, offering a handshake with a grin.
“Lord Uranus told me. Said you earned the greatest merit this war.”
“He showed up at the perfect moment, saving my skin. Not my merit, his timing.”
Angelos poked Robert's side, joking.
“Yet you snatched first dibs on sacking Ohrid?”
He hit the mark. Chuckling, Angelos continued.
“Kidding. Kidding. But more ships than expected. I heard...”
Dozens of vessels lined the Evros—mostly Viking longships.
“Burned plenty fighting Bulgarians.”
“Still this many? Dismantled supply sheds for timber?”
“Spot on.”
Crude builds, but plenty of wood. Most burned, but enough remained for new longships.
“Plus, no supplies aboard—rear units get them. More space.”
Rear echelons handling occupation and disarmament would use leftovers, per Nikephoros's orders—save mobile essentials.
“Sailing back, eh? Eager for Constantinople?”
Angelos groaned about the capital.
“Gorgeous city, but thinking of those tasteless nobles kills the urge.”
“On bad terms with them?”
“Yeah. We're nobles too, but soldier stock. Real nobles are different.”
Bearded elite: proedros, magistros, vestes. Empire's top aristocracy.
“Anyway, even if we go, no applause waiting.”
Triumphal procession: crowds cheering victors with claps and flowers. Normal nations did it, but Byzantium wasn't normal.
Basil II prized extreme efficiency. No parades for victors. Even forbade applause—wasted stamina.
Small wonder soldiers and commanders felt no joy in victory.
“No victory banquet either, then.”
“Obviously. Or maybe not.”
Angelos's face lit up.
“Not? What do you mean?”
“The other emperor might show grace.”
Two emperors now: Basil II, real power. Constantine VIII, handling diplomacy, nobles, internals.
Angelos meant Constantine VIII. Robert, never meeting him since arriving, perked up.