"Quiet women! You are alive and unharmed! Be thankful for God's small mercies. Tomorrow we discover our fate, but we are all alive and well. Tonight we should thank God for our blessings."
Ambrose was never sure if it was the snap of a voice accustomed to command, or if it just started the womens' thought processes down another pathway, but the two subsided into little more than a few muffled sobs and snuffles.
In God's truth, Ambrose thought, looking at the women, they all have retained at least some beauty of face and figure, in spite of the tangled and matted hair and the obvious filth covering them.
Ambrose spoke softly to the Byzantine scholar. "Polonius, what will really happen to the women tomorrow?"
The lean man looked pensive for several moments. "My lord, women, especially beautiful ones, generally suffer only one fate in life, whether they be free or slave. Some are lucky enough to have their lover spread their legs, while others have a master mount them. The difference between rape and lovemaking is nothing but a nod from the woman."
Ambrose mulled over the comments. "Are you saying that they will enjoy being raped?"
"No, my lord. Not at all. But a kind master may be more gentle than a brutal husband chosen by a well-meaning father. I believe all women can learn to love the touch of a man . . . if the man is sensitive and gentle enough. And in the end, the consequence of both rape and lovemaking is the same; a small bundle that needs much loving."
"Polonius, I just pray to Almighty God that the women can find some measure of happiness here in this foreign land."
"Amen, Prince. May that be true for all of us. Much will depend on whose property we become tomorrow."
As the darkness gradually crept up the side of the hut, each of the captives remained in their private universes. They were only visited once, when an affable woman brought them fresh water and hearty food. Throughout the day, and long into the night, the noises of drunken revelry reached their ears.
When a particularly loud cacophony of noises caused Phillip, Ambrose, and Polonius to look up at the same time, the emaciated Byzantine smiled and spoke.
"I suppose, my lord, that it be only just and fitting to give the returning heroes a great party. I have no doubt but that there's many a pirate-raider that never returns to his family and children, and many a bed only half-full in such a nation of adventurers. The wind, the waves, even the peasants' scythes and arrows must have taken their toll, on beaches from Frisia to Hannibal's home.'
Noting Ambrose's puzzled expression, Polonius hurried on. 'This was, as you no doubt remember, young scholar, on the northern coast of Africa, south of Italy. There are even persistent rumours of these Viking scavengers sailing the Asian steppes and interrupting the flow of furs and slaves from the northern lands to my own homeland."
Ambrose interrupted. His interest was piqued. "How, Polonius, great sailors as they may be, could these sailors travel the great plains of Asia in boats?"
"Well, in plain fact, 'tis true, my lord, that there is a chain of mighty rivers that extend from the Pontus Euxinus, far to the north. Legends say they extend even to the great northern frozen sea. A daring sailor, could, perhaps, sail a smaller vessel along these rivers, for it is these rivers that are used to bring goods across the Asian steppes. It is God's truth that I have seen fur-clad Viking barbarian traders walking the streets of Constantinople."
"What interest does Byzantium have in this vast area you speak of?" asked Ambrose.
"Oh, many,' Polonius responded, 'since many of the towns along the shores of the Pontus Euxinus have been partners with Byzantium in trade for centuries, and a major portion of the shore itself is an integral part of the Empire. It is through this area that many barbarian slaves come. The fair Circassian maidens of the Caucasus mountains are legendary for their beauty, as are their horses for speed. From the far north comes furs, ambergris, and ivory from giant sea-animals.
Equally important, Byzantium hires some of the horsemen from the mounted nomad tribes that migrate across the open grasslands. The Empire has a large mercenary cavalry force, made up of Magyars, Khazars, and many other barbarian nations. Byzantium throws these wild horsemen against the inroads of other barbarian nomads, and, especially, against the fierce Arab horsemen riding out of the South.
Ambrose was puzzled. "But why should the Byzantines want to pay others to fight their battles? Are not war games the most important lessons taught to all noble citizens?"
In the dark, Ambrose could barely see the smile on Polonius' face. "My lord, I know not exactly how to answer. The life of most of the Byzantine citizens, or at least those of the capital of Constantinople, is tied up with affairs of commerce and culture. The risk of one's life, at least to a Byzantine, is a foolish thing. One only fights a savage and implacable enemy host if one is unable to hire others, more brave or foolish, to do the job for you. Although there is a very well-trained and strong Byzantine army, it is composed of professional soldiers. Some of the soldiers have even come from as far away as the northern Viking lands in order to enlist.
The Empire, you see, is surrounded on all sides by many fierce people, any one of whom is far stronger than the Danes, or, begging your pardon, the Angles, Saxons and Jutes of Angleland. Each of these new tribes that arrive on the frontier either want to settle on the Empire's most fertile land, or they want to loot the wealth of the great commercial cities.
The Byzantines drive them back, often into the arms of other tribes that have themselves advanced into the former tribe's territory. With their old land taken, our riches to goad them on, and their own warlike traditions, it is little wonder that each of these migrations is a potential threat to the Empire.
Worse, in the last hundred years have come wave after wave of Moslems from the south. They preach conversion by the sword to all nonbelievers. Allah is their god and his prophet is Mohammed. They are not content with tribute, bribes, or even the treasures of our cities, but fight to stamp out Holy Mother Church itself! How does one fight fanatics whose interest in gold is less than their interest in adding your name to the list of the true-believers?'
Ambrose nodded and Polonius continued. His voice was the only sound heard in the compound. All the captives were either listening to his comments, or had lost themselves in reverie.
'My lord, with the blood of both the ancient Romans and Greeks running in their veins and surrounded by millions of barbarian, how could the Byzantines not be expert at war? They, however, prefer not to bloody their swords unless it becomes necessary. What better approach can you think of than to hire mercenary barbarians to fight off other barbarians? In the killing, both barbarian nations are weakened."
There was a long silence. At last, Ambrose replied.
"All the same, it somehow does not seem right to hire others to fight when you are able to do it yourself."
"My lord, does a prince sweep dirt from his doorway, or does his bondsman not do it for him?"
With no ready answer, and as yet only a nebulous set of feelings that something in Polonius's statements did not add up, Ambrose sat silently in the dark. Intruding into the darkness were the continuing sounds of wild revelry.
Each person sank deeper into his or her own personal and intimate thoughts, and no one else ventured to break the silence that descended upon the group. High above, the glorious canopy of velvet black, studded with twinkling sparks of light, wheeled in slow motion.
The night seemed to last forever. One by one, however, each of the captives eventually managed to fall asleep. Only after the sun had risen at least two hands above the horizon did a group of armed warriors enter the little hut and awaken the captives.
"Outside! Out! All to go out!"
The sailor who had acted as interpreter before was with the men, and it was he who shouted at the frightened captives. The prisoners obeyed with alacrity. The village warriors looked much the worse for wear. They carried bared weapons, and their tempers were vile.
Once the captives were blinking in the
early morning light, they were unceremoniously herded along. "You! Go to man there!"
One by one, the prisoners were sent over to the burly man standing by a massive tree stump. There, the man, with a single skilful blow each, knocked out the rivet that held their collars shut. Then, one at a time, they were directed outside of the palisade.
At last the entire group of prisoners was gathered in the open, in a kind of village green surrounded by the Viking homes on all sides. The sun shone brightly, the day was glorious, and Ambrose waited to hear his fate.
Ambrose's eyes again roamed over the sturdy timber houses, with their earth berms along the sides, and thatched or sod roofs. Various groups of villagers arrived and gradually merged into a continuous circle of curious onlookers. Each of the captives felt the eyes of the people upon them, and the women blushed when the men stared hungrily at them.
Ambrose watched the apprehension and embarrassment play across the women's' faces. He knew they feared that the dreaded moment had finally come when they would be forced to submit to their captors. The men were no less apprehensive. Each man wondered if he would receive a relatively easy assignment, or be brutally worked to death. The answer would mean life or death to each of them.
Oddly enough, however, the crowd was not intentionally cruel. A barrier of language existed, as of culture, but Ambrose realized that, so far, except during the attack on the village, there had been no evidence of wanton cruelty. It was obvious to the young prince that horns did not grow out of the Viking heads, nor were they all seven foot-lengths tall. Ambrose had been surprised to note that not even the Viking helmets sprouted horns. The prince wondered if Mother Church was also wrong about their diabolical natures, for he had heard terrible tales of the Vikings when he had sat at the feet of visitors to his father's court. He did remember their ferocious fighting manner, however, and their utter ruthlessness with the slow or disobedient.
When most of the villagers had arrived, the captain, wearing Ambrose's flowing scarlet cloak and breeches of fine wool climbed upon a suitable parked cart. From there he started to address the gathered throng. Ambrose was able to follow, at least haltingly, what was said, but Polonius, with his gift for languages, was faster, and he whispered a translation to Ambrose and Phillip.
"My people, I, Lief Olafson, and my faithful crew, have successfully returned from a long and arduous voyage."
With that the people let out great cheers and pummelled the crewmen on their backs. After allowing a minute of pandemonium, Lief raised his hand and continued.
"After a bitter and unsuccessful fight with the Moors of southern Spain, our long-ship crew sailed north again. Some of our finest young men had died in battle, yet the crew had little to show for it.
At last our vessel separated from the main fleet, and the combined crews of it and another ship coasted the shores of southern Angleland. Then an odd thing happened. A small ship came out from shore and intercepted us. We were ready to put the reckless fools in chains, until one, in quite good Danish, told us his master waited for us on the shore, under a flag of truce. The brash fellow held up several gold coins, so we decided to humour him.
We rowed close to the shore, and some nobleman waded out to parley with us. Before stepping into the surf he lined the shore with a shield-wall of spearmen protecting archers, so we could not try any tricks.
The audience stared enraptured. Several of them could stand it no longer and called out.
"What did he want?!"
"The Saxon wanted to pay us to attack a village further down the coast! He handed us several more gold coins, and promised to take care of the sentries if we struck that night."
A heavy-set woman spoke on behalf of the crowd. "And what happened?"
Lief shrugged his shoulders. "The river-side sentries really were withdrawn. That night we attacked the town. We achieved total surprise. Besides the booty, which you all saw displayed last evening, we returned with these captives who you see before you now."
Many of the Vikings broke into loud discussion, until Lief raised his hand for silence. "It has been decided at the Thing, and with the consent of all the crew, that every family who lost a man on the voyage may choose a male or female slave to help in that man's place. Any crew member may choose a maiden and deduct the value from his share of the booty. After they have chosen, each village widower of the last two years will be given first choice of a maiden for his bed, though he must pay fair recompense into the expedition treasury. The rest will be put to auction; the money to be split equally amongst the crew and the bereaved families.
I believe this to be a just and fair distribution of the booty. As is our custom, a tithe will be sent to our Jarl, that we may continue to be in his favour. If all this is satisfactory, we will now have the selection of the captives, that we may sooner return to our homes and celebrate the town's good fortune."
The roar of the crowd indicated that they agreed happily to these proposals. The captives huddled more closely together as the circle of citizens started to close tighter around them. Polonius looked sharply at Ambrose. He whispered. "Did you hear that, Lord?"
"Aye, I understood enough! Phillip, what did you make of what he said?"
"We knew it was either treachery or bad luck, Prince. Now we know. By God's beard, we now know that you were betrayed by a Saxon!"
Ambrose looked at Phillip with horror on his face. "Surely even Ethelbert would not dare to sell us to the heathen?!"
"It appears that someone did."
"But for what purpose?"
Phillip shrugged. "It makes for one less atheling to choose from if anything happened to your brother, King Ethelbald, and Dorset does not necessarily go to an ealdorman who is fanatically loyal to the king."
"But Phillip, we have already discussed this. Ethelbert is already Under-King. He is the logical successor if something happens to Ethelbald."
"That is the choice of the Witan, boy. Their choice is never known in advance, but you are not now in a position to oppose him should Ethelbert make a bid for the crown."
"Then I pray that Ethelbald lives to be a very old man."
A crewman, the one who had twice before translated for the captives, stepped forward and held up his hand for silence. When the crowd had muffled their good-humoured noise, he spoke to the captives in bad Anglish.
"The . . . village of Fornsgaard welcomes you . . . The terribly Viking decide not to eat you . . . You will be divided, and must . . . work at what you told to do . . . Any one who tries run away will be hunted and crippled so.'
As he spoke he chopped with his hand at his Achilles tendon, and the meaning was clear, for it was not uncommon to see slaves even in Angleland with their tendons cut, effectively preventing their running away a second time. He then smiled with anticipation of the fun about to begin.
'Now, each person to remove ALL clothes for to show bodies. All clothes!"
In a fit of good natured humour, the villagers aided the shyest in pulling off what remained of their garments. Within seconds, and to the accompaniment of gales of laughter, the captives stood naked and exposed to view. Most of the women vainly attempted to cover their genitals. They felt little concern for their breasts, as it was common for most women in Angleland to suckle their young openly and without shame. Ambrose took his cue from Phillip and Polonius, and they all stood as still as resting herons, making no attempt to hide that which gave them claim to manhood.
The villagers circulated freely, and had much merriment pointing at the exposed parts of the captives, pinching fat breasts, or examining teeth. One by one the captives were chosen and taken before the chief's scribe. The scribe recorded who had taken a captive, and who agreed to pay what.
Ambrose and Polonius, however, were waved to the side of the ship's captain. The commander, still dressed in Ambrose's cloak, was talking to an old man dressed in sombre garb. Both prisoners were able to follow the gist of the conversation, and carefully did so.
"I suggest, honoured f
ather, this boy here. He is young and small, but he has the heart of a Viking! When the ship was in danger because of a storm and a broken oar, it was he who leapt to the oar and helped to save us all. Although not yet fully a man, or as strong as he will be, he is of like age to your son when he died, and would mayhap be useful to you. It be further true that he is of noble blood. His hulking guard there,' And with that he gestured to a couple who were leading a naked Phillip away, 'Killed two men in order to keep us from him, and the other captives all listen to and obey this young one.
In truth, I can recommend none better if you want more than a dumb work-beast. Take this one without cost, if he pleases you, for the death of your son lies heavily upon me, and I want you to have some of the help you will need in your old age that your son could have accorded you."
Thus was Ambrose's fate secured, and he was led off with a captive Saxon maiden, so young that her breasts were still high, pointed and firm.
Even as they were being led off, Ambrose overheard the captain speaking to the scribe about Polonius, and he listened as long as he was able.". . . and I want him kept aside. It may be that we will have to cripple him, but he is a scholar and I want our boys to learn more of the world than just our northern lands."
"Lief, do you plan to fill our young warriors with Christian prattle?"
"Make no mistake, scribe, the power of the Christians is great, and their truth is contained in the scribbles they call writing. I want our warriors to know the secrets of our enemies, and, to do that, some of us must learn to read their sacred writings. This one will teach our children the secrets of writing, and even how to converse in other languages. I want . . . "
The conversation faded as Ambrose was led through the crowd and taken towards a large timber house. As they walked, their new master spoke to them in Danish.
"Do either of you speak Danish? No . . . of course not! What would German barbarians be doing speaking a civilized tongue? Well, come along and I'll teach you your tasks soon enough."
Ambrose spoke up in Danish, haltingly. "Your pardon, Master . . . I speak . . . a little of . . . your language. If it pleases you, I will teach it . . . you woman slave, who speaks only Anglish."
Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev. Page 5
