The Golden Empress

Harold Lamb

The dust of the last chariot race settled slowly. One side of the hippodrome became a tumult of waving green and exultant shouting. The favorite green had won.

Slaves ran beside the sweating, rearing horses as the slender chariots were led past the kathisma, the imperial box at the north end of the great arena. But Zoë, the Empress, did not glance at them. She was disappointed because all that afternoon there had been no spill.

She felt aggrieved by the tame ending of the last race. Listless, she lay on a couch scented with oil of poppies, beneath the heavy purple canopy that kept the harsh light of day from her face. Only her handmaidens, who labored in her attiring-rooms that were veritable laboratories of perfumes and unguents, knew the pains by which that face preserved its beauty. Her court and the world of Constantinople believed that Zoë had discovered the secret of everlasting youth; her maidens knew better.

Vain she was, and amorous. The lovers of her youth had grown gray and paunchy by now. These days it pleased Zoë to select mighty men from among the officers of the palace guard and the gladiators, to take them to the deserted throne room. There she clothed them in the Emperor's jeweled mantle and seated them beside her on the throne.

Her city of Constantinople was the queen city of the world, the ghost of the Rome that had been overrun by barbarians seven centuries before. The people liked her because she was magnificent and careless and generous. She gave away islands to her courtiers and golden shields to the barbarian Goths who pleased her. In amusing herself she entertained all Constantinople, with water festivals on the Bosporus, and especially the games in the hippodrome. Secretly, she longed for the vaster amusements of the Caesars of Rome who had matched war galleys in mimic sea fights, and had armed women with swords and spears to struggle for their lives in the arena. That, Zoë thought, would be stimulating.

"What is that?" she demanded.

Below her, at the entrance of the royal box, a group of men had pushed past the guards. These men towered above the guards; they had long hair and wore uncouth mantles. Fair, grim men they were, who walked with long strides toward some empty seats.

Their leader was young. The skin of his throat gleamed white against the fiery red of his hair, and he laughed as he came forward.

The black boys swinging the peacock feather fans behind the Empress ceased their motion. The eunuch who sat at her feet veiled his eyes as he turned toward her, as if dazed by looking into the sun.

"Radiant Magnificence," the eunuch sucked in his breath respectfully, "they are some new barbarians. I will have them driven out-"

He was rising to hasten down to do this when Zoë cried to him impatiently: "Nay, fool, summon them here."

But the eunuch, surprisingly, hesitated. "They are war-wagers from the sea. They have not set foot in Constantinople before. Their leader is called the Unruly, and if it please Your Magnificence-"

"Then bring the chieftain alone." All that the eunuch said only made Zoë more determined to meet the red-haired giant who had pushed past her guards.

The man called the Unruly uttered an exclamation in his deep voice. Zoë wondered what he might be. She knew the yellow-maned Goths who served in the army, the fierce Alans and the Bulgars and the silent Tatars, but she had never encountered a barbarian so masterful as this flaming-eyed youth who stood poised upon her platform as if it were the after deck of a ship at sea-he the master of the ship.

"By Sergius and Bacchus," she said, "what is he? Fetch me someone who knows his speech."

The eunuch vanished, leaving the red chieftain and the Empress contemplating one the other in silence. He returned with an English officer of the cataphracts, the mailed cavalry of Constantinople. The officer wore a gilded breastplate and a helmet with scarlet plumes, and he raised the back of his hand to his eyes as he bowed before Zoe’s couch. The barbarian looked at him in surprise.

"Ask him what man he is, whence he cometh, and why he thrusts aside my guards to seek me," she demanded.

The English mercenary spoke to the stranger, who considered a moment. Then, raising his head, he began to chant:

"On the long ways of the sea,

On a steed of the sea,

Harald the Unruly

Rode the dark billows

To the city of gold.

No man could stand in the sea king's path- "

"He sings," the officer lied discreetly to Zoë "his amazement at the beauty of the Most Imperial. He hath sailed many seas and looked upon the faces of the women of a dozen cities, yet never hath he beheld so fair a face."

"Who is he?" Zoë asked, pleased.

"The younger brother of a Norse king, driven from his own land to seek his fortune upon the sea." The officer had heard of the exploits of this dour Harald who had raised havoc along the shores of the Mediterranean.

Zoë glanced up at the Norseman. "How crude and how daring! Truly he must have a gift for his song. Maria, give the royal barbarian something from the table-that enameled cup."

From the obscurity behind the couch a quiet girl rose, picking up a goblet.

"Witless!" exclaimed Zoë "Fill it with wine of Chios for him!"

Harald the Unruly took the goblet readily enough. "Hail!" he cried, and quaffed it down. When he handed it back to the girl, she shook her head. Perhaps because all the people were looking at her, and she dreaded the anger of the Empress, her aunt, a flush spread from her throat into her cheeks. Harald considered her in silence.

"Stupid!" whispered Zoë. "Did I say to make eyes at this great brute? Go back to thy place."

The girl turned away quickly, and the English officer explained to the stranger.

"Nay, Lord Harald, the cup is thine gift from the Empress."

Harald smiled. It was a rare and goodly cup. When he smiled, his bleak eyes softened. From his bare arm he pulled the gold ring inscribed with runes and offered it to Zoë.

"Say, thou with the feathers," he demanded, "where sits the Emperor who is overlord of all this?"

"There is no overlord. She, the Empress, rules alone."

"A woman!" Harald could not understand how a woman without a husband could keep order in a city so vast that all the men of Norway would not people it. The army of the Norse king would not fill a single side of this arena.

"It is clear," he remarked, "that the man who could win this Empress for a bride would sit in honor."

"Ay," the Englishman admitted, "if he could rule this Empress."

That, Harald thought, would be simple to do. Women could manage about a homestead well enough, and rear children, but no woman could be mightier than a man.

Zoë knew that they were talking about her. She no longer felt listless; in fact, she was conscious of a thrill of interest as she tried the great ring of the Norse chieftain on her slender arm. "Ask him," she demanded, "what he thinks of my sports?"

Both men turned to look down at the arena. Small figures were struggling, in couples, upon the raked-over sand. Some were striking with lead-bound fists, others were wrestling. Down the straightaway athletes hurled javelins high into the air while clowns dressed in the skins of beasts ran away in pretended fear.

The Englishman knew that this Harald could cast a spear sixty paces with either hand. He could go round a ship on the oars when the men were rowing.

"He says," the Englishman informed Zoë, "that all this is sport for slaves."

Zoë pouted. She rather agreed with the strange warrior, but it piqued her that the Norse chieftain should be contemptuous of her athletes.

"Let Antiochus appear-at once!" she commanded, sitting up.

Presently the crowd also stirred, and a shout went up. The fist-fighters withdrew from the arena before the imperial box, and a strange figure walked into the cleared space. A heavy, round helmet covered his head and the nape of his neck. His right arm and shoulder were encased in scale mail, held in place by leather bands. A kilt of silvered scales covered his hips. His left arm bore a small, round shield, and his right hand held a short, straight sword.

Coming below the Empress he sheathed his sword and extended his right arm toward her, as he called out something in a deep voice.

"He says," the Englishman whispered to Harald, "that he, who is about to die, salutes the Empress."

"What is he?" Harald asked in surprise.

"A gladiator. A swordsman."

Silence settled down upon the arena when Antiochus the gladiator faced his opponent, an Ethiopian, naked to the waist, armed with a longer sword but without a shield. The big black soon worked himself into a frenzy, leaping in and out with the swiftness of a panther

Zoë, biting hard upon her lip, leaned forward, her eyes glued to the bodies of the two men. But Harald, after the first moment, understood that the Ethiopian was doomed. In spite of his physical strength and quickness, he handled his weapon clumsily. Antiochus, although he kept his sword and shield close to his body and hardly seemed to move, was the faster fighter, and at home with steel... Suddenly the gladiator's short sword licked out and thrust deep into the heaving chest of the black. Antiochus stepped back and looked up at the imperial box.

As Zoe extended her hand, thumb down, she felt a pleasant, irresistible thrill. In spite of the stupid priests who protested every time she did this, she could not resist the final thrill that her ancestors, the Caesars of Rome, had enjoyed without restraint.

The crowd rose to its feet, jostling to see down into the arena. Women bit at their clenched hands, their faces flushed.

The tall Ethiopian was sitting down, as if tired. Antiochus sheathed his sword and drew a slender dagger. Going to the wounded black he cut the man's throat with a deft slash and blood spurted out upon the sand.

"Ah," Zoë whispered. "Antiochus!"

Then the imperial box below her surged violently. The Norse chieftain was leaping down from bench to bench, thrusting nobles and servants aside. He vaulted the arena rail and strode toward Antiochus, who was wiping the dagger clean.

"It was a foul stroke," Harald said, "to slit the gullet of a stricken man."

Antiochus merely looked at him. The gladiator did not understand the Norseman's speech. So Harald dealt him a buffet against the jaw and he fell heavily. With startling swiftness he got to his feet, his sword out, his heavy face a mask of rage. Standing before him, Harald saw how broad he was in the shoulders, and how the muscles knotted when he moved his arm.

One after the other the ten Norsemen leaped the rail, to run to their chieftain. They drew their swords and lifted their shields and they formed a ring about Harald. Greek guards and officers had rushed into the arena, to come between the fighters. Above the tumult Zoe's high voice was heard, and presently the Englishman thrust his way through to Harald.

"Art mad, lordling?" he grunted, "To strike the gladiator! Now, the Empress bids thee to her box."

By then the guards hemmed in the Norsemen, separating them from the fighters of the arena. Harald accompanied the Englishman back to Zoë who stared at him with new interest. The afternoon had proved a delightful surprise to her.

She explained that Antiochus had challenged to a death combat the barbarian who had struck him.

"It seems to me," Harald answered, "that he goes about it with much bother. He struck a foul blow before me, and that will be his bane. Call off these gilt lads, thy guardsmen, and we will fight easily enough."

"Knowest thou," she retorted "that Antiochus hath fought more than three score? Some escaped with wounds and some he maimed, but eight and twenty he hath slain."

"Then it is time he met his match."

"If you must--" Zoë thought how entrancing it would be to see two such men in a death struggle. To see this violent youth cut down by the invincible gladiator, or to watch Antiochus meet his end there below her in the sand where he had always prevailed. "Let it be tomorrow after the gladiator hath rested. Tomorrow at this hour."

A sudden impulse seized her. "And the reward will be the favor of the fairest woman of Constantinople of the victor's choosing."

If the two champions fought for her favor, Zoë could relish the combat to the full.

A sigh and a stir went through the stands of the hippodrome after the last chariot had been led out. Two men stood beneath the royal box, their shadows stretching over the hard-packed sand.

"Hail, Empress," chanted Antiochus, I who am about to die salute thee!"

The crowd had heard that salutation often. All eyes were on the red-haired youth beside the gladiator. The Norseman wore no armor except for a steel cap; on his left arm he carried a shield, and his right hand held a long, straight sword. Although he had towered above the nobles in the royal box, he looked slight beside the heavy gladiator.

Beneath the purple canopy Zoë feasted her eyes on the two fighters, and gave a signal to the master of the games. Silver trumpets blared and the Norseman and the gladiator faced each other. They did not move. They stood like stone figures.

The Norseman took the first step forward, clashing his sword against his shield. Then Antiochus sprang. Through the air he hurled his weight, to smite shield against shield and overthrow the Norseman. But Harald leaped back and the shields only clashed lightly. Antiochus thrust low with his short sword, and Harald brought his own blade down, driving the point of the gladiator's into the sand. He stamped his foot against the gladiator's sword, to pin it there.

The gladiator was too wary. He freed his blade and lunged back in time.

Harald pressed him, slashing to get home on that bare throat or to hew into the ribs on the unguarded right side. The skill of the Norseman lay only in attack.

Crouched by the arena rail, Ulf the Strong, Harald's lieutenant, quivered and grunted as he watched the smashing blows. Ulf knew the force of those blows. He could see the sinews standing out on the legs of the straining men. He saw more than that. He saw that Antiochus was not tiring. He saw that from time to time the gladiator's short sword licked at Harald's bare right arm. Twice, thrice, cuts appeared on the Norseman's forearm. Blood began to drip from the cuts. And Ulf's fingers clenched in the sand. For with that blood the strength was draining from Harald's sword arm. Muscles had been severed and Harald's blows were growing weaker.

Antiochus crouched lower. He thrust his blade strongly against the Norseman's sword, to test the strength of the failing arm.

The Norseman gave way. His useless sword arm quivered and suddenly the crowd behind Ulf began to roar, sensing the moment of the kill. Harald leaped away and slipped his shield down to his left hand. Swiftly he flung the great shield at the gladiator's head. Antiochus dodged and came on again.

Now the Norseman had no defense. He tossed his sword up into the air just as the gladiator came within reach. Then Harald leaped high to one side, catching the upflung sword in his good left hand. As his feet touched the ground his sword swept down. It bit deep into the right side of the gladiator above the belt.

Antiochus fell to his knees. He tried to thrust once with his short sword; then the Norseman wrenched his own blade clear and the gladiator fell limp on the sand.

Just as the mob had roared when Harald had staggered, it bellowed now at the downfall of the sword-slayer. Zoë, who had been tearing a silk scarf into shreds as she watched the combat, leaned forward with a shrill cry of delight, holding out her hand with the thumb down.

But Harald, if he saw the signal to put Antiochus to death, did not heed it. Already Antiochus had had his death blow.

"He was a mighty man," Harald panted as Ulf ran up to him, "with his weapons."

Ulf nodded, watching the gladiator. "Well for you, Harald, that he did not know you could cast spear or wield sword with either hand." And he began to tie up his chieftain's injured right arm with strips of cloth.

Slaves ran from the royal box and lifted the Norseman to their shoulders.

While he was carried up toward the canopy, men maddened with the lust of slaying clutched at his limbs; women struggled to get close to him, to catch a drop of the blood that dripped from him.

Zoë sprang up, her body yearning toward him. She caught his head between her hands.

"My strong one! O mightiest of men--my champion--Thou art sore hurt! But come, the reward is thine. Choose thou the woman who will favor thee--" and her eyes smiled upon him.

The Norseman had not forgotten. It seemed great good fortune to him. "That black-eyed maid yonder," he said, pointing.

When the Englishman translated this, utter silence fell beneath the canopy. All heads turned where he had pointed, where behind the imperial couch a frightened girl knelt. She had been weeping during the fight.

Zoe's face changed. It became hard and lines appeared about the eyes.

"Witless fool!" she hissed in a cold rage. Then she drew herself up. "Thinkest thou to have at thy call a woman of the purple? That is Maria, my kinswoman. And thou art no more than a barbarian!"

Even while the Englishman was saying this to the surprised Norseman, Zoë whispered a command to the eunuch who was ever at her side. In another moment the imperial guards had closed in upon the dozen Norsemen and had gripped them before they could lay hand to weapon.

"It should be clear to you now," Ulf grumbled, "that this queen they call Zoë is mightier than you."

They were sitting on the grass at the bottom of a hollow tower. The tower was high as a ship's masthead and it had no roof. Nor did it have a stair on the inside. The one iron-bound door was locked from without. At times a guard appeared at the summit of the wall to look down at the captive Norsemen, who had been stripped of their weapons and hurried into this tower to await Zoe's decision as to their fate. Not one had been able to escape to the dragon ship, where the rest of Harald's crew waited.

Harald looked at his bruised messmates.

"She did not hold to her word," he said, "and she overthrew us by treachery." He thought for a moment. "It comes into my mind that this Empress thought herself the fairest of all women, and belike she was angered. These are not simple-minded women."

Ulf grunted. "If that is clear to you now," he said, "it is a pity that it did not come into your head yonder in the bear-pit. Now it seems to me that the Icelander foresaw this ill luck, and that many of us will lose our homecoming."

"That may well be," Harald agreed. Presently a youth appeared at the tower's rim--he must have climbed an outer stair that served the guards. He was shedding tears, and crying words in Norman-French that Harald and some of the messmates understood. Harald sat up to listen, When the youth went away, a guard came and spat down at the Norsemen.

"That youngling was saying," Harald said to Ulf, "that he was brother to the dark-eyed Maria the Porfr--whatever it is. He was saying that this Empress in anger hath given command to make Maria captive and put out her eyes with hot irons,"

After that afternoon in the hippodrome, it did not surprise the Norsemen that Zoë should command this.

"If they will do that to the girl," Ulf pondered, "what will they do to us?"

"We are wayfarers," said Harald, "and soon or late we will find our deaths otherwise than in a bed. But Maria is no more than a tender girl, and it is a shameful thing they will do to her."

"What led you to ask for her, of all the women of Constantinople?"

Harald pulled at the grass between his knees. "I know not. But I will not sit by while they put out her eyes."

"It is hard to see," Ulf pointed out, "how you can do anything else."

By then it was the end of dusk, with only a red glow in the sky. Ulf could hear the guards eating by their fire. From the summit of the tower a hooded woman peered down them, making mocking sounds. At times she spat, or she threw stones taken, from her dress, at Ulf. Suddenly Ulf became greatly interested in what the woman was doing. He touched Harald gently.

"A rope is coming down," he whispered.

The two of then went to the tower's side and searched with their hands until they found the rope dangling. It was stout and strong and the woman had made it fast above because two men could swing on it.

"Now how are we to know," whispered Ulf, "What this woman hath in store for us?"

"We will find out," quoth Harald, taking hold of the rope with his good arm. But Ulf, who had two sound arms, climbed the rope first, bracing himself against the wall with his feet while the Norsemen below held the end of the rope taut.

When Ulf put his shaggy head over the top, he saw that the tall cloaked woman was standing alone at the head of the outer stair. He wondered then how he would speak to her. "Hi, Olga, Gretchen, damzelle--"

"Hi, blood-drawn butcher's calf," croaked the woman in a deep voice. "Shut your lip and come over."

"The Icelander," whispered Ulf joyfully, as he hauled himself over the edge. "How come ye here?"

"By the sense that fools lack. Bid Lord Harald tie himself in this rope's end, and we will haul him up."

While they worked, the Icelander explained that he had been in the crowd at the hippodrome, but high up among the commoners. He had gone out of a gate and had hidden himself until he could speak with his friend the Englishman, who was angered by the treachery of the Byzantines. So the Englishman had got him this dress with a stout rope to coil beneath his cloak.

Before the guards understood what was happening, the messmates swarmed down and cast them to the ground. The struggle lasted only a moment, but some women who had been hanging about the soldiers’ fire screamed and ran away.

"This place," the Icelander complained "hath too many women in it. Now we must make our way quickly down to the ship."

"Wait," said Harald suddenly. "Strip these five of their armor. Take their shields and spears--five of you. Nay, the cloaks as well. Put them on."

Ulf and the Icelander saw the cunning of this, and in another minute five Norsemen stood dressed like Constantinople guards--looking enough like the Byzantines to pass for them in that dim light.

"Now," said Harald, "we will find Maria's house, and take her away so that her eyes will not be put out. Come with me, for I shall find that girl, and Constantinople will not soon forget this night."

His saying came true. At that hour Zoë was at supper with the Caesar and advisers of the empire. She was still in a fury, which did not mend when a slave brought word that the Norsemen had got out of their tower.

The second message, a half-hour later, startled all the Sacred Palace. The Norsemen, Harald and seven others including a strange woman, had been brought into the courtyard of the palace of Maria the Porphyrogenita, by five guards. At least, everyone had taken the five for guards--until Harald made his way up the stairs and found Maria lying on her bed. He wrapped her up in a coverlet and carried her down, and went forth in the center of his men, who had got new arms from the house. They vanished into the network of dark alleys leading to the waterfront.

"Draw up the chain across the harbor," Zoë commanded. "Summon the captains of the war vessels. Light up all the harbor front!"

She called for her litter and a cohort of the palace guard. Surrounded by torches, in the midst of her Goths and Tatars, she was carried down through the gardens and the markets to the marble docks of the Golden Horn.

There she drew a deep breath of anticipation. Her commands had been carried out. Beacons lighted on both sides the harbor cast a gleam over all the dark water. The great chain at the narrow harbor mouth was clanking up--already its ends appeared, dripping, out of the water. In a tumult of hurrying slaves and shouting seamen several lofty war galleys were preparing to put out from the docks, to where the slender dragon ship of the Norsemen lay waiting in the deserted middle of the harbor--having rowed out from its jetty as soon as Harald had boarded it.

It seemed to Zoë that at last she would behold a spectacle worthy of the Caesars of ancient Rome--a battle of gladiators upon ships, before her eyes.

"Sound the trumpets!" she cried.

Over the water resounded the melodious blast of the horns that signified the Empress was ready to watch the spectacle.

Maria, standing on the aft deck of the long dragon ship, heard that blast. She arranged the coverlet about her shoulders and she faced Lord Harald with pride.

"Do ye make war upon a woman? Set me back on the shore, or men will name you coward until the day of your death."

Harald laughed. "A coward? Tell me where it will please you to be landed and I will set you there."

Maria clenched her hands. "You dare not!"

For answer Harald took up one of the steering sweeps, motioning Ulf to the other. "Out oars, lads," he called. "Pull back to the jetty!"

And he thrust over the sweep he held. The men pulled in grim silence; they had little desire to go back among the war vessels that would spout Greek fire and stones at them. They were trapped by the chain, but at least they were better off in open water.

Maria clasped her hands together as if she were praying. Quickly she glanced up at Harald as if to read his eyes. "Stop!" Her cry was so sudden that he echoed it:

"Weigh oars, lads." And he looked down at her. "What now?"

Maria's face was flushed, her head bent. All at once she felt afraid of him, and her lips quivered. "I--you must not risk your life again. These men--" she pointed out into the darkness. "My brother and I, we rowed over the Golden Horn and there, in the middle, the great chain sags--and perhaps--" her voice trailed into silence.

Harald bent toward her eagerly. "How far below the surface lies the bight of the chain?"

A little more than a yard she measured with her hands, and Harald looked at Ulf, who shook his head moodily.

"Nay, Harald, the boat will break her back on that. Then we would find our end in the water."

But Harald touched the girl on the shoulder. "Then you do not wish to go back?"

"Oh, I have told you--besides, I do not want to be blinded."

Strangely Maria did not add that her aunt had often condemned her to such a fate, in a jealous rage. After all, who knew what Zoë would really do?

"Now, lads," Harald called to them, "we will get away. Pull for life. And the others come aft. Each man with a bit of gear. Fetch away the anchor stone."

As the dragon ship turned its carved prow toward the harbor mouth and the long oars churned the water into foam, a mocking shout resounded from the shore. The dragon ship, gaining speed swiftly, headed toward the dim gap where the chain was covered with water. All the Norsemen who were not at the oars staggered aft along the runway with bags and chests in their arms. Two of them lugged the great anchor stone.

Harald did not take his eyes from the dark gap as the dragon ship rushed upon the chain. The keel grated and the narrow craft swayed, jarring suddenly to a stop. The Fore part, suspended in the air, creaked ominously.

"She will not clear," shouted Ulf, looking over the side.

"Forward, all!" Harold roared. "Forward with the gear!" He watched the lifted prow as the men ran forward with their burdens. Slowly the prow sank, while the stern rose a little beneath his feet.

"Pull, lads!" he barked at the rowers. "Pull her over-"

The oar blades thrashed the water white. The chain rasped along the keel and the prow sank gently. The Norsemen yelled as the dragon ship rocked and slid clear of the chain, gliding into open water.

Harald looked over his shoulder at the lights already vanishing behind the point of the city. "Now," he laughed, "that Empress cannot say she is mightier than the Norsemen; for I take away with me the greatest treasure of her city!"

And he summoned the Icelander to the steering sweep. He picked up Maria gently in his arms and carried her down to the cabin space below the aft deck.

The Icelander looked after them, and then he said to Ulf:

"It is clear to me that Lord Harald carries in his arms the one who is mightier than he."

END