We did more waking than dozing. And with danger no longer baring its teeth at us, plus the probability that we were out of enemy territory, sitting around made the Varangians restless and impatient. So Arno didn't wait till dark to go scouting; he started out when sunset was coloring the sky.

Even no more than that made the Varangians more cheerful. They liked action-something going on. If not their action, then someone else's. At least something was happening.

While dusk settled, Tarel and I sat side by side without saying much. Being with him made me remember Jenoor, and that made me introspective. Moise had gone over to sit by Gunnlag and ask him questions in Greek; he found the Varangians intriguing. After a while, he came back and sat down by Tarel and me again. Gunnlag, he said, had told him I'd surprised him-that he hadn't thought a holy monk could fight like I had. I'd been like a berserker, Gunnlag had said, howling in battle and wielding my sword with a fury that would do credit to any warrior he'd seen.

Neither of us was clear on what a berserker was, but apparently it was something or someone pretty wild in battle. Moise was impressed with the story, and Tarel even more. As for me, there wasn't much I could say. Even allowing for Fanglithan exaggeration, it sounded like pretty high praise by Norse standards. I couldn't remember much of the fight-general impressions, fragments of image. But I did remember hearing someone howl and realizing it was me, and that I had gone at it pretty hard.

I was big by Norrnan standards, of course-even by Varangian standards. But the Varangians, like the Normans, had always seemed to me to be a lot stronger and a lot more formidable than I was.

I recalled the times when one or another of them had grabbed me. Arno, on that first day in Provence, when he'd grabbed my wrist and hauled me up onto his destrier. And Varangians a couple of times. They'd seemed terribly strong. Was it because of the way they did things? With hard, abrupt force, the way a warrior might learn to do them? Did they actually think of me as physically strong-or at least fairly strong? And was I, in fact, stronger than I thought? I didn't have the hand and wrist strength to handle a Varangian sword one-handed, but maybe the rest of me compared better with Normans and Varangians than my hands and wrists did.

One thing I knew for sure: Fighting with swords was something I'd gladly do without.

It was sometime after dark when I woke up. How long after, I don't know. The moon wasn't up yet though, and it was really black among the scrub trees in the ravine bottom. Guys were moving, talking. Then I recognized the plod of hooves, not running or even walking, but stamping around, and not just one horse but several.

"Larn! Gunnlag!"

It was Arno's voice. I rolled to my feet and moved through the dark in his direction. "What is it? What did you find?" I called.

"You were right!" He said it in Evdashian. "We're here! They are Normans!"

Gunnlag was beside him before I got there, asking questions in rapid Norse, and I had to wait for a minute before I could get any more information. Then the Varangian chieftain turned away and began to shout orders.

Arno turned to me. "The baron holding this district in fief is Gilbert de Auletta," he said. "He has invited us to stay at his castle, and within a day or two he will provide us with an escort to Palermo. Which is no farther than two long days' walk. And for you and me, and perhaps a few others, he will provide horses."

Three of the baron's men waited for us outside the darker darkness of the scrub woods, with spare horses for Gunnlag and me. I had one of the wounded ride mine-a Varangian named Ketil, from a place called Jamtland. He was a huge man, even by Evdashian standards, and one of those who used an oversized, two-handed sword. I'd noticed him early on, not only because of his size, but because of his helmet. It had a nasal on it to protect the nose, and looked to be Norman, Normans had fought Varangians at various times, and I suspected that Ketil's helmet was a trophy from some Norman he'd killed.

Arno hoisted me up to ride with him. He was impressed that I'd give up my horse to a wounded comrade, and I was surprised that he found it admirable. It showed me another side of Arno; if I'd thought about it at all, I'd have expected him to consider my giving up my horse a weakness. The other Varangians regarded Ketil as a savage, which from them seemed to be a term reflecting admiration as well as caution. They all seemed wary of him, as if he was dangerous. Supposedly, as a youth, he'd been a member of a bandit troop in Jamtland that had preyed on trade caravans over the mountains there. He'd even broken a moose to the saddle to ride on, they said. Whatever a moose was.

It was nearly unbelievable that Ketil had walked all the way from the battle site. His calf had a deep cut across the muscle that made it impossible to flex his ankle or push off with the ball of his foot. Try walking on hills that way sometime! And even tightly bandaged, it leaked blood off and on. Yet the only sign of pain he showed was his bad limp. His grim lack of words didn't seem part of it; he hadn't talked much before the wound, either.

He didn't even say thank you, or anything else, when I turned my horse over to him.

Gilbert de Auletta's castle was Saracen-built, of course. It wasn't as large or luxurious as Roger's at Mileto's not by a long way, but it had a bath and gardens. And a dining hall. Eating was our first order of business. The Varangians ate the same way they did just about everything-they gave it a hundred percent. They weren't shy about the wine, either.

Gilbert kept us company while we ate, and drank wine with us. And spoke Greek with the Varangians. In fact, as the drinking continued, it was mainly with the Varangians that he talked. He'd been born in Italy, in Campania, grandson of one of the earliest Norman mercenaries there. Until the invasion of Sicily, he told us, he'd spent much of his life in the Norman effort to drive the Byzantines out of Italy. And he spoke Greek fluently, or at least easily.

Like the knights I'd known in Normandy, he wore his hauberk at the table, but he was different-looking from any other Norman knight I'd seen. Even wearing a hauberk, he had a slender, fine-boned look-like a Saracen, Arno whispered. His face was sharp, and his wrists and hands small. But his hands were extremely muscular, his bare forearms well-developed and sinewy, and when he chewed, the muscles in his jaw looked like stones.

His almost-black eyes seemed to actually gleam with an intensity that made me uncomfortable, but I couldn't fault his friendliness or hospitality.

Arno didn't seem to drink much. He raised his cup often enough, but I never saw him accept a refill. I decided he probably had a reason for that, so I did the same, and in Evdashian told Tarel and Moise to follow my example.

After supper we bathed. The Varangians knew about bathing. I didn't ask whether it was done in their homeland or if it was something they'd learned in Miklagard. In the bath was the only time I'd unslung my rifle from my shoulder, even at the table. And even in the bath I kept it in reach. The Varangians and Gilbert would just have to assume it was some religious instrument.

When we'd finished our bath, a servant showed Arno, Tarel, Moise, and me to a separate room, with actual mattresses, stuffed at least partly with nice-smelling herbs. The Varangians would bunk down in the dining hall on straw. I put my belt, with its weapons, on the floor by my head, and Arno blew out the flame in the bowl of oil that was our lamp. It felt incredibly good to lie on something soft, with no stones digging my back, and my stomach not only full but happy.