His manner did more than his whisky to put me at ease. “I hope to track down the Ermanaric part,” I told him. “It isn’t properly integral, but a connection did develop, and besides, it’s interesting in its own right.”
“Ermanaric? Who dat?” Everard gave me my glass and settled himself to listen.
“Maybe I better backtrack a little,” I said. “How familiar are you with the Nibelung-Volsung cycle?”
“Well, I’ve seen Wagner’s Ring operas. And when I had a mission once in Scandinavia, toward the close of the Viking period, I heard a yarn about Sigurd, who killed the dragon and woke the Valkyrie and afterward mucked everything up.”
“That’s a fraction of the whole story, sir.”
“ ‘Manse’ will do, Carl.”
“Oh, uh, thanks. I feel honored.” Not to grow fulsome, I hurried on in my best classroom style:
“The Icelandic Volsungasaga was written down later than the German Nibelungenlied, but contains an older, more primitive, and lengthier version of the story. The Elder and the Younger Edda have some of it too. Those are the sources that Wagner mainly borrowed from.
“You may recall that Sigurd the Volsung got tricked into marrying Gudrun the Gjuking instead of Brynhild the Valkyrie, and this led to jealousy between the women and at last to his getting killed. In German, those persons are called Siegfried, Kriemhild of Burgundy, Brunhild of Isenstein; and the pagan gods don’t appear; but no matter now. According to both stories, Gudrun, or Kriemhild, later married a king called Atli, or Etzel, who is none other than Attila the Hun.
“Then the versions really diverge. In the Nibelungenlied, Kriemhild lures her brothers to Etzel’s court and has them set on and destroyed, as her revenge for their murder of Siegfried. Theodoric the Great, the Ostrogoth who took over Italy, gets into that episode under the name of Dietrich of Bern, though in historical fact he flourished a generation later than Attila. A follower of his, Hildebrand, is so horrified at Kriemhild’s treachery and cruelty that he slays her. Hildebrand, by the way, has a legend of his own, in a ballad whose entirety Herb Ganz wants to find, as well as in derivative works. You see what a cat’s cradle of anachronisms this is.”
“Attila the Hun, eh?” Everard murmured. “Not a very nice man. But he operated in the middle fifth century, when those bully boys were already riding high in Europe. You’re going to the fourth.”
“Correct. Let me give you the Icelandic tale. Atli enticed Gudrun’s brothers to him because he wanted the Rhinegold. She tried to warn them, but they came anyway under pledge of safe conduct. When they wouldn’t surrender the hoard or tell Atli where it was, he had them put to death. Gudrun got even for that. She butchered the sons she’d borne him and served them to him as ordinary food. Later she stabbed him as he slept, set his hall afire, and left Hunland. With her she took Svanhild, her daughter by Sigurd.”
Everard frowned, concentrating. It couldn’t be easy to keep track of these characters.
“Gudrun came to the country of the Goths,” I said. “There she married again and had two sons, Hamther and Sorli. The king of the Goths is called Jormunrek in the saga and in the Eddie poems, but there is no doubt that he was Ermanaric, who is a real if shadowy figure around the middle and late fourth century. Accounts differ whether he married Svanhild and she was falsely accused of infidelity, or she married somebody else whom the king caught plotting against him and hanged. In either case, he had poor Svanhild trampled to death by horses.
“By this time, Gudrun’s boys, Hamther and Sorli, were young men. She egged them on to kill Jormunrek in vengeance for Svanhild. Along the way they met their half-brother Erp, who offered to accompany them. They cut him down. The manuscripts are vague as to the reason why. My guess is he was their father’s child by a concubine and there was bad blood between them and him.
“They proceeded to Jormunrek’s headquarters and the attack. They were two alone, but invulnerable to steel, so they slew men right and left, reached the king, and wounded him severely. Before they could finish the job, though, Hamther let slip that stones could hurt them. Or, according to the saga, Odin suddenly appeared, in the guise of an old man with one eye, and betrayed this information. Jormunrek called to his remaining warriors to stone the brothers, and that is how they died. There the tale ends.”
“Grim, hey?” said Everard. He pondered for a minute. “But it seems to me that whole last episode—Gudrun in Gothland—must’ve been tacked on at a much later date. The anachronisms have gotten completely out of hand.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “That very commonly happens in folklore. An important story will attract lesser ones to it. Even in trifling ways. For instance, it wasn’t W. C. Fields who said that a man who hates children and dogs can’t be all bad. It was somebody else, I forget who, introducing Fields at a banquet.”
Everard laughed. “Don’t tell me the Patrol should monitor Hollywood history!” He grew serious again. “If that sanguinary little yarn doesn’t really belong in the Nibelung canon, why do you want to trace it? Why does Ganz want you to?”
“Well, it did reach Scandinavia, where it did inspire a couple of pretty good poems—if those weren’t just redactions of something earlier—and did hook up to the Volsung saga. The connections, the whole evolution, interest us. Also, Ermanaric gets mention elsewhere—in certain Old English lays, for instance. So he must have figured in a lot of legend and bardic work that was since forgotten. He was powerful in his day, though apparently not a very nice man himself. The lost Ermanaric cycle might well be as important and brilliant as anything that has come down to us from the West and the North. It may have influenced Germanic literature in scores of unsuspected ways.”
“Do you intend to go straight to his court? I wouldn’t recommend that, Carl. Too many field agents get killed because they got careless.”
“Oh, no. Something horrible happened, from which stories sprang and traveled far, even reaching into historical chronicles. I think I can bracket when it happened, too, within about ten years. But I mean to familiarize myself thoroughly with the whole milieu before I venture into that episode.”
“Good. What is your plan?”
“I’ll take an electronic cram in the Gothic language. I can read it already, but want to speak it fluently, though doubtless my accent will be odd. I’ll also want a cram on what little is known about customs, beliefs, et cetera. That’ll be very little. The Ostrogoths, if not the Visigoths, were still on the bare fringes of Roman awareness. Surely they changed considerably before they moved west.
“So I’ll begin well downtime of my target dates; somewhat arbitrarily, I’m thinking of 300 AD. I’ll get acquainted with people. Next I’ll reappear at intervals and learn what’s been going on in my absence. In short, I’ll keep track of events as they march toward the event. When it finally comes, I shouldn’t be caught by surprise. Afterward I’ll drop in here and there, from time to time, and listen to the poets and storytellers, and get their words on a concealed recorder.”
Everard scowled. “Um-m, that kind of procedure—Well, we can discuss the possible complications. You’ll move around a fair amount geographically too, won’t you?”
“Yes. According to what traditions of theirs got written down in the Roman Empire, the Goths originated in what’s now central Sweden. I don’t believe that numerous a breed could have come from that limited an area, even allowing for natural increase, but it may have furnished leaders and organization, the way the Scandinavians did for the nascent Russian state in the ninth century.
“I’d say the bulk of the Goths started as dwellers along the southern Baltic littoral. They were the easternmost of the Germanic peoples. Not that they were ever a single nation. By the time they reached western Europe, they were separated into the Ostrogoths, who took over Italy, and the Visigoths, who took over Iberia. Gave those regions fairly good government, by the way, the best government they’d had for a long while. Eventually the invaders were overrun in their turn, and vanished into t
he general populations.”
“But earlier?”
“Historians make unclear mention of tribes. By 300 AD, Goths were firmly established along the Vistula, in the middle of what’s currently Poland. Before the end of that century, the Ostrogoths were in the Ukraine and the Visigoths just north of the Danube, the Roman frontier. A great folk migration, apparently, over the course of generations, because they seem at last to have abandoned the North entirely; there, Slavic tribes moved in. Ermanaric was an Ostrogoth, so that’s the branch I mean to follow.”
“Ambitious,” Everard said doubtfully. “And you a new chum.”
“I’ll gain experience as I go along, uh, Manse. You admitted yourself, the Patrol is shorthanded. Moreover, I’ll be acquiring a lot of that history which you want.”
He smiled. “You should, at that.” Rising: “Come on, finish your drink and let’s go eat. We’ll need a change of clothes, but it’ll be worth the trouble. I know a local saloon, back in the 1890’s, that sets out a magnificent free lunch.”
300–302
Winter descended and then slowly, in surges of wind, snow, icy rain, drew back. For those who dwelt in the thorp by the river, and soon for their neighbors, the dreariness of the season was lightened that year. Carl abode among them.
At first the mystery surrounding him roused fear in many; but they came to see that he bore neither ill will nor bad luck. The awe of him did not dwindle. Rather, it grew. From the beginning, Winnithar said that for such a guest to sleep on a bench, like a common thane, was unfitting, and turned a shut-bed over to him. He offered Carl the pick of the thrall women to warm it, but the stranger made refusal, in mannerly wise. He did accept food and drink, and he did bathe and seek the outhouse. However, the whisper went about that maybe these things were not needful for him, save as a show of being mortal.
Carl was soft-spoken and friendly, in a somewhat lofty way. He could laugh, crack a joke, tell a funny tale. He went forth afoot or ahorse, in company, to hunt or call on the nearer yeomen or join in offerings to the Anses and in the feasting that followed. He took part in contests such as shooting or wrestling, until it had become clear that no man could best him. When he played at knucklebones or board games, he did not always win, though the idea arose that this was because he chose not to make folk afraid of witchcraft. He would talk to anybody, from Winnithar to the lowliest thrall or littlest toddler, and listen with care; indeed, he drew them out, and was kindly toward underlings and animals.
But as for his own inward self, that remained hidden.
This did not mean that he sat sullen. No, he made words and music come forth asparkle as none had ever done before. Eager to hear songs, lays, stories, saws, everything that went about, he gave overflowing measure in return. For he seemed to know all the world, as if he had wandered it himself for longer than a lifetime.
He told of Rome, the mighty and troubled, of rts lord Diocletian, his wars and his stern laws. He answered questions about the new god, him of the Cross, of whom the Goths had heard a bit from traders or from slaves sold this far north. He told of the Romans’ great foes, the Persians, and what wonders they had wrought. Onward his words ranged, evening after evening—on southward to lands where it was always hot, and people had black skins, and beasts prowled that were akin to lynxes but the size of bears. Other beasts did he show them, drawing pictures in charcoal on slabs of wood, and they cried aloud in their astonishment; set beside an elephant, an aurochs or even a troll-steed was nothing! Near the ends of the East, he said, lay a realm larger, older, more marvelous than Rome or Persia. Its dwellers were of a hue like wan amber, and had eyes that appeared to be aslant. Plagued by wild tribes north of them, they had built a wall as long as a mountain range, and had since then been striking back out of that redoubt. This was why the Huns had come west. They, who had broken the Alans and were vexing the Goths, were only a rabble in the slanting gaze of Khitai. And all this vastness was not all there was. If you traveled westward till you had crossed the Roman holding called Gaul, you would come to the World Sea of which you had heard fables, and if there you took ship—but craft such as plied the rivers were not big enough—and sailed on and on, you would find the home of the wise and wealthy Mayas…
Tales Carl also had of men, women, and their deeds—Samson the strong, Deirdre the fair and unhappy, Crockett the hunter…
Jorith, daughter of Winnithar, forgot she was of age to be wedded. She would sit among the children on the floor, at Carl’s feet, and hearken while her eyes caught firelight and became suns.
He was not steadily on hand. Often he would say he must be by himself, and stride off out of sight. Once a lad, brash but skilled at stalking, followed him unseen, unless it was that Carl deigned not to heed him. The boy came back white and ashudder, to stammer forth that the graybeard had gone into Tiwaz’s Shaw. None went under those darkling pines save on Midwinter Eve, when three blood offerings—horse, hound, and slave—were made so that the Binder of the Wolf would bid darkness and cold begone. The boy’s father flogged him, and thereafter nobody spoke openly of it. If the gods allowed it to happen, best not ask into their reasons.
Carl would return in a few days, freshly clothed and bearing gifts. Those were small things, but beyond price, be it a knife whose steel held an edge uncommonly long, a scarf of lustrous foreign fabric, a mirror outdoing buffed brass or a still pond—the treasures arrived and arrived, until everybody of any standing, man or woman, had gotten at least one. About this he said merely, “I know the makers.”
Spring stole northward, snow melted, buds burst into leaf and flower, the river brawled in spate. Homebound birds filled heaven with wings and clamor. Lambs, calves, foals tottered across paddocks. Folk came forth, blinking in sudden brightness; they aired out their houses, garments, and souls. The Spring Queen drove Frija’s image from farm to farm to bless the plowing and sowing, while garlanded youths and maidens danced around her oxcart. Longings quickened.
Carl went away still, but now he would be back on the same evening. More and more were he and Jorith together. They would even stroll into woods, down blossoming lanes, over meadows, out of everybody else’s ken. She walked as though lost in dreams. Salvalindis her mother scolded her about unseemliness—did she care naught for her good name?—until Winnithar quelled his wife. The chieftain was a shrewd reckoner. As for Jorith’s brothers, they glowed.
At length Salvalindis took her daughter aside. They sought an outbuilding where the household’s women met to weave and sew when there was no other work for them. There was now, so that these two were alone in its dimness. Salvalindis put Jorith between herself and the broad, stone-weighted loom, as if to trap her, and asked bluntly, “Have you been less idle with that man Carl than you’ve become at home? Has he had you?”
The maiden flushed, twisted fingers together, stared downward. “No,” she breathed. “He can, whenever he wants. How I wish he would. But we’ve only held hands, kissed a little, and—and—”
“And what?”
“Talked. Sung songs. Laughed. Been grave. Oh, mother, he’s not aloof. With me, he’s kinder and, and sweeter than… than I knew a man could be. He talks to me as he would to somebody who can think, not just be a wife—”
Salvalindis’ lips pinched. “I never stopped thinking when I married. Your father may see a powerful ally in Carl. But I see in him a man without land or kin, belike a warlock but rootless, rootless. What gain can our house have of linking with him? Goods, aye; knowledge; but what use are those when foemen threaten? What would he leave to his sons? What would bind him to you after the freshness is gone? Girl, you’re being a fool.”
Jorith clenched her fists, stamped her foot, and yelled through tears that were more of rage than woe: “Hold your tongue, old crone!” At once she shrank back, as aghast as Salvalindis.
“You speak thus to your mother?” the latter said. “Aye, a warlock he is, who’s cast a spell on you. Throw that brooch he gave you into the river, do you hear?” She turned a
nd left the room. Her skirts made an angry rustling.
Jorith wept, but did not obey.
And soon everything changed.
On a day when rain blew like spears, while Donar’s wagon boomed aloft and the flash of his ax blinded heaven, a man galloped into the thorp. He sagged in the saddle, and his horse was near falling from weariness. Nevertheless he shook an arrow on high and shrilled to those who had come out through the mud to meet him: “War! The Vandals draw nigh!”
Brought into the hall, he said before Winnithar: “My word is from my father, Aefli of Staghorn Dale. He had it from a man of Dagalaif Nevittas-son, who fled the slaughter at Elkford so as to carry warning. But already we at Aefli’s had marked a ruddiness on the skyline, where surely farmsteads were afire.”
“Two bands of them, then,” Winnithar muttered. “At least. Belike more. They’re out early this year, and in strength.”
“How could they leave their grounds untended in seeding time?” asked a son of his.
Winnithar gusted a sigh. “They’ve bred more hands than they need for work. Besides, I hear of a King Hildaric, who’s brought their clans beneath him. Thus they can field greater hosts than erstwhile, which move faster and under a better plan than we’re able. Aye, could be Hildaric means to rid these lands of us, for the good of his own overflowing realm.”
“What shall we do?” an iron-steady old warrior wanted to know.
“Gather the neighborhood men and go to meet as many others as time allows, like Aefli’s, if he hasn’t already been overrun. At the Rock of the Twin Horsemen as aforetime, eh? It may be that, together, we’ll not hit a Vandal troop too big for us.”
Carl stirred where he sat. “But what of your homes?” he asked. “Raiders could outflank you, unbeknownst, and fall on steadings like yours.” He left the rest unspoken: plunder, burning, women in their best years borne off, everybody else cut down.
The Sorrow of Odin the Goth tp-7 Page 3
