Robert Lyndon: Imperial Fire

His walled villa stood near the top of the hill. He frowned to see the courtyard door standing ajar. He pushed it open and entered, breathing a sigh of weary pleasure at being home again. For a few moments he stood absorbing the atmosphere. He’d owned the villa for four years and in all that time he’d spent only eleven months under its roof.

From a precinct behind the stable came the clatter of practice swords. Vallon led his horse over to find Aiken sparring with Wulfstan, his Viking watchman. Vallon watched, putting off the moment when he’d have to break the news to Aiken.

As always, he was struck by how little the boy resembled his father.

Aiken was slight, of medium height, with straight mousy hair and grey eyes. Two of him would comfortably have fitted into his father’s massive frame. Even allowing for the blood inheritance on his mother’s side, it wasn’t credible that Beorn had sired him, yet the Varangian had never broached the subject and in all respects treated the lad as if he were flesh of his own flesh.

Wulfstan lowered his sword. ‘No! You keep closing up. You’re not a snail; you don’t have a shell. All you’re doing is showing your opponent that you’re scared.’

‘I am scared. Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Listen. There’s no reason to fear being killed in battle. If you receive the death blow, the shock and pain will stop you thinking about death. And once you’re dead, you won’t be thinking about anything.’

‘False dialectic. According to Plato — ’

‘Listen, lad, I might not have your book-learning, but I know one thing. A man who’s scared of death is fearful of life, and a man who’s fearful of life might as well be dead.’

Vallon cleared his throat.

Wulfstan whirled and his bruiser’s whiskered face lit up. He freed the stump of his left hand from the socket attached to the back of his shield. ‘Lord Vallon! Welcome home, sir.’

‘It’s good to be back,’ Vallon said, not taking his eyes off Aiken.

Wulfstan knew that look and what it meant. ‘Lord save us. Don’t tell me…’

Vallon handed him the reins of his horse. ‘She’s weary. Feed, water and groom her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Wulfstan said in a downcast tone.

Aiken hurried over, a boyish smile lighting his face, then he registered Vallon’s expression and the smile withered.

Vallon didn’t soften the blow. ‘I’m sorry to bring you woeful news. Your father perished at Dyrrachium. He died gallantly, leading a charge against the Normans, singing his battle hymn. He didn’t suffer.’

Aiken swallowed. Something in his throat clicked.

Vallon took his hands. ‘Before the battle, your father and I spoke at length about you. He told me how proud he was of your achievements. So am I. We’ll arrange a mass to pray for his ascent into heaven. You’ll need a period of mourning and reflection, but after that it’s my wish to adopt you as my son. I know you already hold that place in my Lady Caitlin’s heart.’

A tear winked on Aiken’s lashes. ‘What a waste.’ He pulled free and stumbled away.

The villa door opened and Vallon’s daughters ran out, skidding on the slush. ‘Daddy! Daddy!’

He caught them one in each arm and swung them up. ‘Zoe! Helena! How you’ve grown. What beauties you’ve turned into.’

Over their heads he saw Caitlin hurry onto the veranda, followed by Peter, his house servant. Her lips trembled. His own mouth twitched and his heart distended. At thirty-three, she was as beautiful as the day he’d first seen her — more so, thanks to the ministrations of maids and hairdressers and seamstresses.

She held up the hem of her skirts and hurried towards him. ‘You should have sent notice of your homecoming. I would have arranged a celebration.’

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to celebrate.’

Only then did Caitlin notice Aiken leaning against the wall in the corner of the courtyard, his shoulders racking with sobs. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Beorn’s dead?’

Vallon nodded. ‘Along with most of the Varangian Guard.’ He put out a restraining hand. ‘Give him some time on his own.’

She batted aside his hand, ran to Aiken and squeezed his head to her bosom.

‘What’s wrong, Father?’

Vallon looked into the uplifted faces of his daughters. He tried to smile. ‘I brought you some presents.’

Vallon’s homecomings seldom went as joyously as he’d anticipated. Always there was distance to be bridged, a friction that took time to smooth away. Beorn’s death and its consequences made this the most strained reunion yet. Over supper, Caitlin tried to show interest in Vallon’s activities during his seven-month absence. He filled the silences with questions about domestic matters, the girls, Caitlin’s social arrangements. Aiken had retired to his room.

When the servants had cleared the dishes, Caitlin looked at the empty table. ‘What will become of him?’

‘As I told you, we’ll adopt the boy.’

‘I meant, what does life hold for him?’

‘He’ll join the military under my tutelage.’

Caitlin screwed up her napkin. ‘No!’

‘Aiken is my squire, my shield-bearer. It’s his duty.’

‘The boy isn’t a soldier. He has no aptitude for violence. Ask Wulfstan. What he does have is a gift for languages and philosophy.’

‘Caitlin, I have no choice in the matter. I swore an oath to his father.’

‘A loud-mouthed roaring idiot who got himself killed just like all those foolhardy warriors who perished at Hastings.’

‘Beorn died defending the empire.’

‘From what you told me, it sounds like he squandered his life to settle an old blood grudge.’

Vallon gritted his teeth. ‘My lady, I think you’ve settled so comfortably into the luxurious ways of Constantinople that you forget what sacrifices have been made to safeguard your lifestyle.’

Both of them stared at the table. Caitlin eventually broke the silence. ‘Surely you don’t mean to take Aiken on your next campaign.’

‘I do.’

‘But he’s only sixteen, just a boy.’

‘He’s the same age I was when I first saw military service. Don’t worry. I’ll lead him on gently.’

Caitlin stared through him, then rose and made for the door.

‘Where are you going?’

She whirled, eyes ablaze. ‘Where do you think?’

Vallon remained at the table, half articulating justifications for his decision, his discomfort worsened by the knowledge that Caitlin probably was right. Sweet anticipation of returning home had soured. Smacking the board with his fist, he picked up the flagon of wine and two beakers and went to Wulfstan’s lodgings by the gate.

‘I’m not keeping you from sleep, am I?’

‘God, no, sir.’

‘I thought we might drink to my safe return and Beorn’s voyage into the afterlife.’

The Viking swept a bench clean with his good hand. He quaffed his cup in one and leaned forward, eyes shining. ‘Tell me about the battle, sir.’

Vallon sipped his wine and his gaze wandered back to that chaotic day. ‘It was a complete mess…’

Half-drunk by the time he’d finished his account, he looked up to see Wulfstan’s gaze rapt and distant. The Viking’s nostrils flared. ‘God, I’d give anything to fight another battle.’

‘Isn’t the loss of one hand enough?’

Wulfstan looked at his stump and laughed. ‘I can still hold a sword.’

Vallon sobered. ‘Do you think Aiken will make a soldier?’

Wulfstan’s manner grew circumspect. ‘Under your tutelage, I think any lad would.’

‘The truth now.’

‘His sword-play is quite pretty.’

‘But he lacks fire and fibre.’

Wulfstan had drunk twice as much as Vallon. ‘The trouble with Aiken is that he thinks too much. Imagination is the enemy of action.’