The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Beaten with leaden whips,” Peter whispered. He envisioned those horrible Northmen on the night the abbey burned and remembered how that beastly Northmen had pelted Bodo to death with bones and wooden brands. Peter began to tremble. He blinked back tears. A sign, surely this was a sign from God. Bodo and Simplicius’ deaths were so similar. Peter wiped his nose and bowed his head. It humbled him to think that God had guided him here to this very spot. It meant that God forgave him his sins. He forgave his lust and fornication, his lies and attempted thefts.

  “The leaden whips tore his body like the Romans did to our Lord Jesus Christ.” The old soldier dabbed his cheek. “That is a right fine martyrdom, torn and mutilated like our Lord. Saint Simplicius must have been a holy man.”

  Peter held himself very still. He was afraid he might leap, twirl and dance around this small church. He was a chosen vessel of God, him, a bastard child form Ireland, a Danish half-breed. He breathed the saintly air and barely noticed the Lotharingian beside him.

  Peter followed the old soldier within. Two women bowed and prayed before the altar. Peter advanced near and slyly inspected the altar, noting the heavy slab of marble. He might possibly lift the marble slab, take the relic within and then set the marble back, just as it was. It was important that others not detect his actions. Peter went alone into the crypt because the stairs were steep. It was gloomy down here, with a damp odor. He flexed his fingers, eager to peer into the tomb. Instead, he satisfied himself by draping himself upon it. Yes, he should be able to lift this lid. He thoughtfully climbed the stairs and followed the old soldier outside.

  Lupus waited for them. His face was too bland. The Lotharingian’s gaze fell upon the old soldier and then he gave Peter a meaningful stare. The Lotharingian was a crafty fellow, too crafty by far. That low cunning, however, had saved them more than once.

  Peter strolled to him and whispered, “Trouble?”

  Lupus stepped back from the grinning old soldier and turned his head. He spoke softly: “I’m wondering what the penalty is for stealing a holy relic. Maybe this old crow would earn a reward for helping catch us. Maybe that’s why he’s showing us all this.”

  Peter frowned. Steal a relic? This wasn’t theft, was it? He chewed his lip. God had ordained the trip. Why, the similarity of the deaths of Bodo and Simplicius was a sign. Their abbey desperately needed a new relic. Satan’s minions had burned up the old one. Then the abbot had given him the penance just before his death, had sanctified the entire quest with his blood. Look how everything had fallen into place after that. He had almost walked into a village full of Northmen and not one of them had seen him. Crafty Lupus had joined him as a guide. Count Odo had found them and taken them safely to Paris. Judith had given him a guide to Rome and coins. Perhaps Enrico had proved false, but that was a test surely. Now this old soldier had showed them this particular church. It all pointed to the hand of God.

  “This is a holy task,” Peter whispered. “It isn’t theft. It’s the penance for my sins.”

  “Fine,” Lupus said. “Just don’t trust that dotard. He’s too happy, by half. Your only friend in Rome is me. Everyone else here plunders what he can.”

  “Well, what do you lads think?” said the old soldier. “Is this an excellent relic? Have I fulfilled my pledge?”

  Peter gave the crippled old soldier a pleasant smile, a nod, and he decided on a… not a lie. No, he needed some misdirection is all in case Lupus was right. Peter cleared his throat. “I shall ask the sub-deacon about this tomb. Perhaps he might speak with a cardinal or even the Pope. The sub-deacon carried a letter bearing the seal of Paris’s bishop. That should help in this.”

  The old soldier looked crestfallen. As he leaned on his crutch, he glanced from Peter to Lupus. “You don’t want to slip in tonight and carry off the relic?”

  Peter forced a brisk laugh. “What a preposterous notion. No, no.” He glanced at Lupus. The Lotharingian adjusted the straps of a sandal. Peter cleared his throat. Maybe this was another test. He had been willing to steal for sin. Would he now employ those same talents for God? Would he use his craft for the Church instead of for lust and fornication?

  “Continue, please,” Peter said. “I would like to see more.”

  The old soldier scratched his arse and finally gave a one-shouldered shrug, a philosophical gesture. He crutched along the Via Lavicana and pointed out another martyr’s tomb, talking about leopards tearing saintly women into bloody ribbons.

  ***

  Peter fasted three days. The old soldier came around, but Peter told him they had finished sightseeing. Peter spent much time in solitude and prayer while Lupus idled his days. Then, on the fourth day, Lupus purchased two donkeys.

  “I thought you were almost out of coins,” Peter said.

  Lupus shrugged.

  Peter noticed a tear in Lupus’s tunic and a dark bruise on his left calf. “What happened to you?”

  The Lotharingian flashed those black teeth and jiggled his coin pouch. “Do you really want to know?”

  Peter’s empty gut tightened. “This is a holy task. You mustn’t jeopardize it by brigandage.”

  “I have torches, food, donkeys and a fine linen shroud, or did you expect to return home on an empty stomach and with bleeding feet?” asked Lupus.

  Peter rubbed his face. What would arguments solve? He fingered his rosary and pondered the ways of God as they found a hostel a mile outside the city. They bedded down at dusk, and in the middle of the night rose up and headed in the dark for the Via Lavicana. Lupus carried the unlit torches. Peter cradled the linen shroud and mumbled fervent prayers. Lupus kept out a sharp eye, and twice they slipped off the road and waited behind bushes as night watchmen with their spears and lanterns clattered by. At the small church of Saint Tiburtius, Lupus took out a box of coals and lit the first torch. A dog barked in the distance. The stars blazed overhead, but no soul was out in the cemetery or in the church.

  They entered, the torch shimmering its light as shadows played on the walls. Lupus stuck the torch in a sconce, and together they gripped the altar’s heavy marble slab. Peter strained. Lupus grunted. The marble didn’t slide or shift.

  “It’s too heavy,” Lupus whispered.

  Peter nodded, and he took the torch and together they threaded down the steep stairs. Each creak added to the gloom. The close air was oppressive. Lupus wore a grim look. He feared the fairies and the demons of the night. Peter called on the Lord Jesus Christ for help and adorned the holy martyrs. Then, Lupus and he lifted the tombstone that covered the sepulcher. Peter’s heart thumped. It was empty! This was just like the abbey’s coin box. Despair engulfed him.

  Lupus thrust the torch lower. “Look,” he whispered.

  Despair turned into rapturous joy. There at the bottom of the sepulcher lay bones, dust and a small marble tablet. Peter picked up the tablet and made out the words bearing testimony that this indeed was the body of Saint Simplicius.

  “Praise the Father, Son and Holy Ghost,” Peter whispered. With great reverence, he laid out the linen shroud. He scooped up the dust, bones and skull and carefully wrapped them in the shroud. The thrill running through his limbs was sweet ecstasy. He lifted the relic and set it on the floor. Then together they lifted the lid and set it back into place. Lupus swallowed noisily. He features were pale.

  Peter triumphantly picked up the relic, cradling it in his arms. A serene smile spread across his face. “We’ve done it,” he whispered. “I have gained a relic.”

  Lupus urgently motioned that they climb the stairs.

  Outside the church, Lupus sucked down the night air. He trembled.

  “Put out the torch,” Peter said.

  Lupus thrust it against the ground.

  “You must stay calm,” Peter said. “God aids us. Now I may rescue Willelda.”

  Lupus said nothing. His eyes were haunted.

  That too was a sign to Peter. Tonight’s act touched the bold serf. Oh, praise God! Praise God, Jesus and all the saints
of Heaven. This was the most glorious day of his life. His next step was the first on the long road back to Paris and his dear Willelda.

  40.

  Without Judith, Christmas for Odo had been a bitter ache of loneliness. The rage in his soul at the treacherous act burned hotter the deeper he buried it. Whenever anyone mentioned the Bishop or Sir Arnulf to him, Odo’s lips thinned and the skin tightened across his cheekbones. He spoke no words against them. He wasn’t a madman; he didn’t want war in the city. (They kept her in a house behind a guarded wall.) The one time the Bishop had greeted him in the streets Odo had inclined his head as his eyes glittered. Oh, that had been a terrible moment. In a flash, he had seen it all in his mind and had almost responded. It had been a strange sensation, dreamlike. He had inclined his head even as he’d envisioned his hand wrapped around his sword hilt and the blade hewing into the old man’s neck. It had brought a grim twitch to his lips, and that had made the Bishop’s escort nervous. One of Gozlin’s retainers had actually stepped between them with his shield interposed. There had been no words spoken. The Bishop’s greeting had frozen on his lips. Nor had they bumped into each other since then or met together in council.

  It had been almost two months without Judith, two months of bitter siege. The Northmen tightened their ring around the city even as Odo and his men tightened their belts. The sea rovers plied their onagers. The Siege Master, the far traveling dwarf with his horsehair helmet and hard-won Eastern knowledge of blockage had practiced dirty tricks. The onagers flung rotten flesh into the city. The onagers kicked and flung flaming balls of cloth that burst apart at impact and set timber buildings afire. Abbot Ebolus had marched out one day with priests, trumpets and relics and made a circuit past the Merchant Quarter’s walls. He had caught the Northmen by surprise, when most of them ate their noon meal. The march had been a major blessing, a petition toward Heaven. Near the completion of that little procession, however, the Siege Master and several onager crews had targeted the priests. Whizzing stones had chased them through the gate, striking one old deacon on the head and slaying him on the spot. Odo had reacted against the onagers differently, oh, much differently indeed.

  He seethed within, without he presented a calm demeanor, a lordly certainty that victory would be theirs. The loneliness in his heart devoured his soul. It hardened him. It strengthened his desire to slay Northmen. It made him cunning and drove him toward a deeper study of De Re Militari. It also put lines around his mouth and etched furrows across his forehead as he paced the walkways studying the Great Pagan Army.

  He read his few bowmen, noble hunters all, what Vegetius said about training archers: A third or fourth of the youngest and fittest soldiers should also be exercised at the post with bows and arrows made for that purpose only. The masters for this branch must be chosen with care and must apply themselves diligently to teach the men to hold the bow in a proper position, to bend it with strength, to keep the left hand steady, to draw the right with skill, to direct both the attention and the eye to the object, and to take their aim with equal certainty either on foot or on horseback. But this is not to be acquired without great application, nor to be retained without daily exercise and practice.

  Count Odo bid his few bowmen to test the blacksmiths, butchers, carpenters and plow-hands that stood on the parapets. A similar number of real fighting men also joined the trainees. Those men shot at posts and straw butts until their fingers bled. Other people fletched thousands of arrows.

  Arrows had greater range than javelins, but it still wasn’t far enough. Therefore, Odo questioned his men and he spoke once with Count Herkenger. He learned of a machine called a springald, one within the capacity of his blacksmiths—he hoped. He had read about ballistae and been dismayed at their complicated construction. Nor did he feel that Danish onagers were the answer. Unless they captured some and dragged them back into the city, he had little hope of pelting the distant Northmen. He studied the burning cloth balls. Those gave him a cruel plan, but that occurred later.

  Ballistae and onagers were beyond the skill of his artificers, but the springald was different. He spoke with the blacksmiths and found an old graying man who nodded, saying it was possible. In the smithy, the old man forged a great iron bow. This he bolted to a heavy plank. A carpenter chiseled down the middle of the plank, down its length, and made a smooth groove for a javelin. There a moveable claw was inserted near the end of the plank. Then they tested hemp, catgut thread and found that three ordinary bowstrings braided into one survived the stretch without snapping. The great iron bow had incredible tension. A special lever drew this string back. Drawing the string was a most difficult chore, but once the string hooked over the claw and a javelin was set in the groove, all a man had to do was pull a small lever. That moved the claw, which released the thick string, which rested against the end of the javelin and shot it hard out the grooved plank. Tests outside in the street proved successful. The springald shot the javelin harder and farther than an archer’s arrow. What made the springald deadly was a spike driven through the middle of the plank. Then they built a stand the height of a stool with a cupped metal bowl embedded on top. Men lifted the springald and set it onto the stand. They balanced the springald on that lone spike which rested in the small metal cup. In this manner, the shooter could swivel the springald at whatever target he desired. It took a steady, strong hand however for accuracy. When the claw released the heavy string, the vibration of the metal bow threw off most men’s aim.

  Yet, now, for the first time, Odo had a machine that could match the Northman’s onager in range. His men clamored for its immediate use. Count Odo shook his head. He had different plans. One, he wanted trained shooters of skill. That took practice and that took time. Two, he wanted more than just one springald; he wanted several to provide a greater and deadlier surprise the first time they were used. That surprise included the result of his careful study of the flaming cloth balls. He had tasted bits of cloth that had survived impact and had a monkish alchemist taste it as well.

  While engaged in such practices, Christmas passed and the siege entered January. During certain dark nights, Odo took serfs outside the walls and they dug trenches before the Petit Pont Tower. It was dangerous work, but toward the end of January, it proved its worth. For the Northmen finally shook off their slumber. They shook it off as the temperature dropped and storm clouds billowed in the sky.

  ***

  Danish axe-men trooped into the nearby forest, and mules and horses dragged groomed logs over the snow. The Danes were unmatched as wood-workers. With hard oak wedges and mallets, they splintered the logs and with their axes, they smoothed each piece into planks. Forges glowed in the enemy camp, tendrils of smoke rose as hammers rang shrilly.

  “They’re making nails,” said a blacksmith in the Petit Pont Tower. According to him, Northmen held each nail by tong and hammered it by hand. It was tedious work.

  Wrapped in a rough cloak, Count Odo stood beside the blacksmith. The Count had grown lean, his cheeks hollow and his eyes—there was something eerie in them. Perhaps his fever had never truly left or perhaps the nightmare in the woods of Louvain yet lingered in his thoughts.

  The next day Northmen gathered the planks, split logs and brought out many baskets of nails. Under the Siege Master’s guidance, they began construction.

  “Why build such huge sheds there?” Wulf asked two days later.

  The two sheds had stout wooden sides and an even stronger roof. There weren’t any doors, although both the front and back of the sheds was open.

  The next day Danes rolled out huge wooden wheels. They were each as tall as a man. With loud shouts bellowed in unison and log levers, masses of Frankish slaves lifted first one edge of a shed and then another. Northmen swung mallets, hammered in thick wooden axles and onto them fitted the vast wheels, sixteen to a shed. Next, the Danes dragged a great tree trunk under the roof of the first shed and fixed it with chains so the trunk dangled just above the ground and parallel with it. />
  “It’s a covered battering ram,” Odo said as he struck the battlement. “They mean to knock down our tower, or knock into it.”

  “There’s enough room under those sheds for sixty men apiece,” said Wulf. “They’ll swing that ram hard, I reckon.”

  Once finished with the first ram, the Danes began on a second and then a third.

  That night Odo bid men raise three springalds onto the tower. It was time for the great surprise. They maneuvered one unwieldy machine behind a woven screen of reeds made to look like an addition to the parapets. A fourteen-year-old huntsman, thin, with crooked teeth and missing a hunk of his left leg (a boar had once ripped it during a chase) settled in that morning behind the springald. He had proved during trials the best shot and had practiced with this machine were no Danes could watch.

  “Can you hit him?” Odo whispered.

  The youth squinted in the morning light. Clouds drifted across the heavens; it was an overcast morning. The youth’s stubby fingers caressing the firing latch as he shifted his head back and forth.

  The Siege Master, the dwarf with the horsehair helmet, had reputedly learned his trade under the walls of Constantinople. He stood beside an unfinished battering ram and waved his ivory baton, yelling at a Danish carpenter presently out of sight.

  “Maybe,” whispered the huntsman. “Or maybe it would be better to wait, milord. Better to wait until the wind dies down.”

  Odo scowled. Everyone on the tower grew silent and tense. They had learned to fear his moods. Odo gave a curt shake of his head and dug his fingers into the huntsman’s shoulder. “Put a javelin in his chest. Do it, and name your reward.”

  The fourteen-year-old huntsman bit his lip and unconsciously rubbed his lame leg. “I want to be kennel master, milord. My leg’s all tore up, you see, and—”

  “You make the shot and you’re my kennel master for life.”