The Sea Wolves: A History of the Vikings

by Lars Brownworth

  To most, defenses of this magnitude were intimidating.137 The Rus, apparently, considered it a challenge. Constantinople might be the greatest city on earth, with defenses that had shrugged off four hundred years of attacks, but it was also built on a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water, and water was their element.

  The attack was coordinated from Kiev, where Askold and Dir had been gathering and equipping a fleet of some two hundred ships. When they reached the Black Sea they found it completely unguarded and managed to slip along its coast, unnoticed by any imperial patrols. On June 18, 860, just as the sun was setting, the Rus fleet drew up before the massive walls of Constantinople. Whether by good fortune or careful planning, they had timed the attack perfectly. The emperor was away, and the city sat virtually undefended.

  Chapter 16

  Miklagård

  “…the terror and darkness robbed you of your reason…”

  - Patriarch Photius

  In its long struggle with Islam, the Byzantine Empire was finally starting to see the tide turn. This was due to both a temporary decline in the strength of the Caliphate, and the careful stewardship of a series of emperors who had taken halting steps toward recovering some of the territory lost during the previous two centuries. The current dynasty had been reaping the benefits of this resurgence, but had been less than successful on the battlefield, and was eager to fend off the whispers of cowardice. When the opportunity came to gain some ground on the Arab frontier, therefore, the emperor Michael III – better known to posterity as Michael the Drunkard – marched out to fight the Muslims.

  He quite sensibly took a large part of the navy with him. For all their power on land, the forces of Islam had not mustered a corresponding naval strength, and the imperial fleet could be used to resupply the army while it hugged the coasts. They were leaving Constantinople undefended behind them, but in all the years of the city’s existence there had never been a credible threat from the Black Sea. When the Rus fleet arrived, the shock was overwhelming.

  It was as if a wolf had suddenly materialized inside the sheep pen. As far as the Byzantines knew, the northeast was a trackless wilderness, an effective barrier to the hostile tribes beyond. There were no cities or population centers capable of supporting an army, and no dockyards on the coast for building a fleet. And yet, here were strange ships with dragon prows and menacing warriors where no ships should ever be.

  With the emperor and most of the armed forces away, the task of defending the city fell to the Patriarch Photius. The city seemed paralyzed. As Photius later recounted, “Like a thunderbolt from heaven… the terror and darkness robbed you of your reason…You, who have captured many trophies from enemies out of Europe, Asia, and Levant, are now threatened by a spear held by a brutal, barbarian hand which would make a trophy of you!” As the Rus looted the unprotected suburbs outside the walls, the stricken population could only watch in horror. Those who couldn’t get out of the way were cut down or drowned as the Rus put their homes to the torch.

  From the imperial harbor, the citizens could see the Rus fleet wheel towards the islands off the coast. The ‘Princes Islands’ were used both as spiritual retreats and prisons for exiled political prisoners. They had served as the final home of several blinded emperors and currently held Photius’ predecessor. When the Rus landed, they found to their delight, that there were also plenty of monasteries nestled among the rocks.

  The several weeks it took to loot the entire chain of islands, gave Photius the time he needed to mount a defense. The patriarch was a remarkable man. Not only was he arguably the most erudite man to fill his post, but he was also an adroit political animal.138 His first order was to summon the monks guarding the city’s holiest relic – a cloth worn by the Virgin Mary – and have them parade it around the city walls. While this had no discernible effect on the Rus, it did give a needed boost to the morale of the populace by reminding them that the city was under divine protection.

  It certainly seemed as if it was. What happened next is unclear since our only contemporary source is silent, and later chronicles are garbled. Most likely, several imperial ships arrived on the scene and, with the help of a convenient storm, managed to scatter the Norsemen.139 The Rus withdrew to the Black Sea in disorder, ending the expedition.

  The Rus had seen just how formidable the city’s defenses were. Their failure to attack the city despite the absence of the army is a testament to how impressed they were. They were also concerned about the imperial navy. This was the first time that the Rus had ever come across a power that was capable of matching them at sea. They would have to either attack it in greater numbers, or gain access to its wealth as traders and mercenaries.

  For their part, the Byzantines were also shaken. The attack had served as a diplomatic wakeup call. There was a new power to the northeast that had come out of nowhere, and it had to be brought to terms. Byzantine ambassadors were sent speeding to Kiev, and a treaty was agreed to, allowing the Rus to trade inside Constantinople. If that had been the goal all along for the Rus – as it may indeed have been – it was a brilliant success.

  On this triumphal note, the shadowy Rurik the Rus disappears from history. He had founded the first centralized state – or at least received credit for it – and would become the great ancestor of Russian dynasties. For the next seven centuries, aspiring leaders would gain credibility by how close they could tie themselves to his house.140

  The future of his state, however, was not in Novgorod where he had ruled. His successor, Helgi, relocated to Kiev, and took the title ‘Great Prince of the Rus’.141 For the first few years, he concentrated on imposing his rule, expanding south and gaining control of the prosperous trading towns along the Dneiper.

  By 907, he felt secure enough to undertake the major campaign of his reign, an attack on Constantinople. Unlike the earlier probing strike, this one was a full invasion with the full support of a ‘prince’.142 Helgi had made a careful study of the habits of the imperial navy, and skillfully managed to avoid it, reaching the outskirts of the city unopposed. The mouth of the imperial harbor was blocked with a huge iron chain, so Helgi walked his men overland and used two thousand canoes to cross over to the north side of the city.

  If any spot of the land walls was vulnerable, it was the northeastern district where they dipped into a valley. Helgi brought his army there, cheekily hung his shield on the gate, and waited until the imperial army appeared. This was a magnificent bit of saber rattling. Helgi wasn’t foolish enough to think that they could overwhelm the most formidable walls in Europe without siege equipment. His predecessor had demonstrated that the Rus were capable of commanding a threatening fleet, and Helgi had now shown the strength of an army he could put in the field.

  What he really wanted was a formal treaty granting his merchants favored status, and the imperial government decided that it wasn’t worth the nuisance of denying him. Specific terms were laid out for how Rus merchants could operate and they were given a privileged quarter in the city. The Rus were exempted from certain taxes and duties, although what they could sell was strictly regulated. The Byzantines even agreed to give them access to the city’s baths. Most importantly, however, the Rus were given the opportunity to serve as mercenaries.

  This would in time grow to be their main occupation in the east. The Rus had found in Byzantium the only state in medieval Europe that was financially organized enough to regularly pay mercenaries, and this employer – as they were to find out – paid extremely well. A succession of emperors used Viking soldiers – both the Rus and fresh recruits from Scandinavia – to great effect. The most famous was the emperor Nicephorus Phocas, who in 961 launched an attempt to reconquer Crete from the Muslims. Three previous tries had been made with disastrous results, but Nicephorus – a brilliant general – had brought with him a compliment of Vikings. He used them to storm the beach, and so thoroughly intimidated the defenders that they refused to engage in another battle. After a nine-month siege of the capita
l they surrendered.

  It was a mistake, however, to think that Byzantium and Kiev were at peace. The lesson the Rus took from the treaty of 907 was that they could renegotiate better terms by invading every few years. Helgi’s successor Ingvar, better known by the Slavic version of his name, Igor, launched two attacks on the city in 941 and 944.

  In both cases, the Rus suffered horrendous casualties, largely due to a mysterious super weapon known as Greek Fire. It was a naphtha-based liquid which would ignite on contact, and had been a state secret of Byzantium since its invention in the seventh century.143 The closest the Byzantine’s got to explaining it was emperor Leo the Wise’s laconic description that it was “fire prepared with thunder and lightning“. The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok had run into a version of it when they had raided Muslim Spain, but that was undoubtedly not as effective as the real thing. The Byzantines would store it in clay pots and lob it at ships, igniting the decks as the vessels shattered, or use flame throwers mounted on their prows to spray it at opposing ships. Since it was oil based, water only made the situation worse. It would spread out in a slick over the surface, setting fire to anyone who jumped overboard.

  The Byzantines used their weapon sparingly, but they knew how to deploy it to devastating effect.144 During Ingvar’s attack, the imperial fleet used submerged brass tubes to burn the Rus ships beneath the water line. To an eyewitness, it looked as if the very sea had caught fire. “The Rus”, he wrote, “seeing the flames, jumped overboard, preferring water to fire. Some sank, weighed down by the weight of their breastplates and helmets; others caught fire.”

  It took almost a century of costly failures for the Rus to understand that they couldn’t take Constantinople by storm or ruse. Despite the trauma that these repeated assaults caused the citizens, there was something in the dogged persistence that impressed the Byzantines. They became the mercenary of choice, and in 988, the emperor Basil II created a special corps that would in time become the most famous – and profitable – employer of the Vikings in the east.

  In 988, Basil was in desperate need of effective soldiers and was on the brink of losing his throne. Although of peerless lineage – he claimed descent from Constantine the Great – the thirty-year old Basil II was facing a massive revolt by Bardas Phokas, one of the empire’s most capable generals. Although he would eventually emerge as one of the empire’s most ferocious warriors, in 988 he was still new on the throne with an unreliable army and a skeptical court.145

  The rebel general marched through Asia Minor unopposed, sacking any town that displayed loyalty to the emperor. When he reached the shore of the Bosporus, the narrow strip of water that separates Asia from Europe, he had himself crowned emperor, complete with imitation diadem and the purple boots of the imperium. The population, sensing the way the wind was blowing, hurried to offer their congratulations and support. By one account, the rebel army was now twice the size it had been when it set out.

  Basil, whose one previous military campaign had ended in an ambush, had only the few troops in Constantinople and a nearby field army of questionable loyalty. Things looked bleak, but the emperor kept his head. Even before the rebel army had reached the shore, his ambassadors were speeding towards Kiev. Ingvar’s grandson Vladimir, was only too happy to receive them, and he made an audacious offer. In exchange for six thousand Viking recruits from Scandinavia, he wanted to marry Basil’s sister, Anna.

  The ambassadors probably returned to Constantinople believing that they had failed. In the long history of the empire, a princess of the ruling dynasty had never been given to a barbarian. The proposition itself threw the court into an uproar. Not only was Vladimir a barbarian, but he was a staunch pagan to boot, who had slaughtered his own brother, raped his sister-in-law, and usurped the throne. He already had seven wives and over the years had collected some eight hundred concubines. Even in an emergency, he was not the type to be given a chaste Christian princess.

  The court – and poor Basil’s sister – may have been outraged, but the emperor was determined to have the extra troops.146 He agreed to the deal, adding only the stipulation that Vladimir had to accept Christianity and give up some of his more scandalous behavior. Both sides were as good as their word. Vladimir was baptized, the protesting bride was shipped north, and six thousand hulking Vikings arrived at Constantinople.

  Basil wasted no time. Under the cover of darkness he slipped across the thin strip of water separating him from the rebel army, and landed a few hundred yards from the main enemy camp. At first light he charged, driving them toward the beaches.

  The rebels didn’t stand a chance. Stumbling out of their tents half awake and undressed, they were confronted with a horde of screaming Vikings, swinging their massive battle-axes. So many were slaughtered that before long the Vikings were doing their work ankle-deep in gore. Those who managed to escape the carnage had the equally horrid fate of being burned alive. As they fled the ruins of their camp to the water’s edge, a squadron of imperial ships blanketed the beach with Greek Fire, immolating everyone.

  The victory both secured Basil on his throne, and convinced him – if there were any remaining doubts – that he had been right to sacrifice his sister. Another man would have thanked his mercenaries, paid them off, and dismissed them, but Basil had other ideas. The years of turmoil had convinced him of the necessity of overhauling the Byzantine army, and he intended to use these Vikings as a new core around which to build it.

  The Norsemen were loyal to gold, and there was no finer paymaster than Basil. They took an oath of allegiance to the throne, after which they became known as Varangians – the men of the pledge.147 In times of peace they served as the royal bodyguard, and in times of war as shock troops.148 They were the empire’s premier fighting force, successor to the ancient Praetorian Guard of Rome, and they fought the empire’s battles from Syria to Sicily.

  To an ambitious Scandinavian, there was no surer way to find wealth than through service with the Varangian Guard. Signing up with the emperor ensured regular payment and the chance to raid far off lands without the rigors of planning.149 These campaigns not only offered a better chance of survival than traditional plundering, but were extremely lucrative. One Byzantine source even claims that when an emperor died, the Varangians were entitled to one trip to the treasury where they could have whatever they could personally carry away.

  Over the next few centuries, some of the most famous Vikings from across Scandinavia would spend some time under arms in the Varangian Guard. Kings of Norway, Princes of the Rus, Irish jarls, and Icelandic berserkers, all found prestige and wealth in tours of duty.

  Often men who went on to other careers considered their time in the south among their greatest accomplishments. Being part of a successful campaign gave one tremendous cachet with both sexes. Bolli Bollason, a hero of the Icelandic Laxdæla Saga, is described returning from Greece like some new Adonis. Wherever he and his men took lodgings for the night, “the womenfolk paid no heed to anything but to gaze at Bolli and his companions and all their finery.”

  Evidence of the Vikings in Byzantium is littered throughout the south. In Athens, they carved runes into the side of a marble lion that guarded the city’s port of Piraeus, and in the Hagia Sophia, at least two bored guardsmen carved runic graffiti into the parapet of the second floor balcony.

  The price of service can also be found recorded in runes. Many stones in Scandinavia bear the inscription Vard daudr i Grikkium – died among the Greeks. Some never returned because they found life in the warm climates of the south preferable. Enough ‘axe-bearing barbarians’ settled in Constantinople to qualify for their own quarter, often serving the throne from father to son. As the Byzantine princess Anna Comnena wrote more than a century after Basil, “As for the Varangians, who bear on their shoulders the heavy iron sword, they regard loyalty to the emperors and the protection of their persons as a family tradition, a kind of sacred trust and inheritance handed down from generation to generation.”

 
; As time went on, however, the Guard began to change. After 1066, there was a great influx of Anglo-Saxons who were trying to escape the heavy yoke of the Norman Conquest, and the Viking recruits began to dwindle. By the early fourteenth century, the Viking element had almost completely vanished.150

  There was more to this change than just the arrival of different conscripts. The Rus themselves were different. It was more profound than a simple break with their nomadic, raiding past, and the adoption of a settled lifestyle around fortified cities. Although they still thought of themselves as Vikings – or at least of Scandinavian descent – the beginnings of something brand new was beginning to appear. The Rus were becoming Russian.

  Chapter 17

  The Pull of Byzantium

  “If a wolf comes among the sheep, he will take away the whole flock unless he is killed”

  - Russian Primary Chronicle

  In some ways it’s surprising that the Rus held on to a Viking identity as long as they did. The original Viking raiders that had plied the waters of the Volga and the Dneiper, had always been a minority population. The vast area they conquered, from Novgorod, in the northwest, to Kiev, the current capital of the Ukraine, was populated by Slavs, while the Scandinavians were no more than a privileged military caste. They took local wives, and although a constant stream of immigrants from Sweden would have slowed the process, gradually they began to merge identities with the Slavic population.