Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Alas, but my travail had just begun.

  Great the grief! I recognized, among the hoarded gold, the fine-crafted eagle from Bishop Cadoc’s staff. The proud bird had been snatched from its rightful perch and now spread its wings for the enjoyment of its captors. I beheld that holy emblem and my heart sank like a millstone. “Poor Cadoc,” I murmured, “such a death was not worthy of you.” At least the priceless book was not amidst the plunder; I took that as a good sign.

  When the last of the golden trinkets had been dispersed, Yellow Hair fell to dividing up the coinage and silver. The larger silver objects were quickly hacked to pieces with axes—not regarding either beauty or craftsmanship—and those pieces added to the heap. I winced to see a handsome platter and several fine dishes fall to the chop, not to mention numerous brooches, pins, rings, and armbands.

  Still kneeling at his work, he sorted the coins and pieces into mounds according to size and weight, and then divided them into meticulously equal stacks—one for each Sea Wolf. This done, the barbarians drew lots and chose from among the stacks according to their luck at the draw. The last pile fell to the chieftain, who scooped it up quickly, and poured the coins into his cup.

  Thus were the treasures meted out. Many, I noticed, were delivered forthwith into other hands. Indeed, surprisingly few treasures remained the sole property of their recipients. For no sooner had the Sea Wolf got the goods in hand, than his wife laid claim to it; and, upon wresting the precious object from her husband’s clutches, the woman knotted the family’s ill-gotten wealth into a tight-tied bundle in a corner of her mantle.

  Yellow Hair, having given out every last scrap of treasure, now received the adulation of his people. They acclaimed him noisily, slapping his back and shoulders; some of the women tugged affectionately on his long braided hair and beard. It was in the midst of this that my barbarian approached his leader. They exchanged a quick word and my heart seized within me as they both turned and eyed me carefully.

  I saw Yellow Hair shrug in a disinterested way and then turn to the throng. He called out to them and pointed directly at me. This caused an uncertain sensation among the crowd, some of whom laughed aloud while others muttered ominously. Several moved nearer the boat for a better look, eyeing me with speculative curiosity.

  One of these, a thick-browed man, raised his voice to the chieftain and was answered benignly. Yellow Hair then turned to my barbarian who nodded, his mouth firm. The thick-browed man spoke again, pointed at me, and held up two fingers. I perceived with some dismay that they were bargaining for me.

  Again, the chieftain spoke, and again my barbarian nodded. The other man looked at me, then shook his head and walked away. Yellow Hair held out his hand. My barbarian reached into his belt and withdrew three gold coins which he dropped into the chieftain’s palm.

  Yellow Hair commanded the last treasure box to be returned to the ship, and then sat down cross-legged on the oxhide, holding his cup in one hand and his bowl in the other. At once the oxhide was taken up and lifted high, and the barbarian chieftain was carried into the fortress upon the shoulders of his people, who followed with much loud acclaim.

  My barbarian summoned me from the ship, where I stood watching all that passed on the strand. I climbed over the rail and joined my new master, who put a hand to his chest and said, “Yuu-nar.” Patting his chest, he repeated this word several times, nodding at me with an expression of intent expectation.

  “Yu-nar,” I replied, pronouncing the odd-sounding name as well as I could.

  He smiled, pleased with my effort, said, “Gunnar,” again, then tapped me on the chest hopefully.

  “Aidan,” I told him. “I am Aidan.”

  Gunnar appeared thoughtful. “Ed-dan,” he said.

  “Aidan,” I corrected gently, nodding. “Aeedan.”

  “Aeddan,” he replied.

  I was on the cusp of correcting him again, when he suddenly raised his hands, took me by the throat and squeezed hard. I struggled to remove his hands, but he pressed the harder, and I began to fear he would choke me to death. My eyes bulged and I fought for breath. Gunnar forced me to my knees. Black spots crowded my vision, and I croaked, “Mercy!”

  Only then did he release me. I gasped, drawing air into my lungs. Standing over me, Gunnar took a length of leather strap, such as might be used to leash a dog, and proceeded to tie it around my neck; he looped it two or three times and tied it tight. Then, with a grunt, he extended his right hand to me. I thought he meant to raise me up, so I took the offered hand. He shook off my grip and thrust his hand nearer my face.

  When I made no further move, he took my head with his free hand and held it while he pressed the back of his right hand to my forehead. I understood this gesture to mean that he considered himself my master, and I his slave, indebted to him for my life, which he held in his hands.

  He turned away and strode towards the fortress, stopping after a few strides to see if I was following him. When he saw that I was still on my knees, he uttered a sharp word of command—which I took to mean that I was to attend him. I rose and proceeded to the settlement behind my master.

  We approached the high gates and I trembled with fear and dread. I crossed myself and invoked divine protection, saying, “Shield me with a mighty shielding, Lord. Let Michael, Chief of Hosts, go before me into this dread place. My soul between thy hands, Great King, thy wings surrounding me in this sea of unrighteousness. So be it!”

  Thus sustained, I made the sign of the cross over my heart and entered the fortress, passing through the enormous gates and into that heathen domain.

  I had never seen a barbarian habitation before, but I had heard men tell of the settlement at Dubh Llyn; apart from the absence of the river, this might have been that very place. The dwellings were large, squat mud-and-timber lodges with steep-peaked thatched roofs; there were seven of these lodges, each one made to serve fifteen or twenty people.

  One great structure stood apart from the others, holding centre place within the timber walls. Two slender birch poles stood before this dwelling, their tops adorned with wreaths and boughs of fresh-cut branches tied with white and yellow rags. Even without the birch poles I would have known the place as Yellow Hair’s hall.

  Passing among the dwellings and across the wide yard, Gunnar and I followed the throng between the birch poles and into the great hall. The room was a dim and very forest-like, with the boles of trees standing the length of the hall, their branches obscured in the smoky darkness of the roof. These rooftrees were painted: red, white, and yellow, but one—that nearest the western corner where the king had his chamber, though it was little more than a stall such as often given to horses—was painted blue.

  Sooty torches fluttered in their iron sconces, casting a dim filthy light over all within. The length of the room was lined with sleeping nooks or stalls, some of which were fronted by screens or skin hangings for privacy. Round wooden shields hung from the upper beams above clusters of spears. Two long boards on trestles faced the hearth, with low benches running the length of the boards on either side. The floor was strewn with reeds and straw; dogs sprawled lazily underfoot, or sniffed around the legs of the newcomers.

  All lords are alike in the ostentation of their dwellings, and the barbarians are especially given to excessive display. Yellow Hair’s chair was a big, oaken throne with rings and bosses of iron; his hearth was wide and deep, stone-lined, with huge iron firedogs to support the vast logs he kept burning day and night. An enormous bronze cauldron hung by a double-linked chain from a tripod; the contents of this kettle bubbled and spluttered.

  Lord Yellow Hair strode directly to the gurgling pot and, taking up a long flesh-fork, thrust the implement into the stew. He brought up a steaming hunk of meat which he brought to his mouth and from which he worried off a chunk. Chewing heartily, he swallowed the gobbet down, then turned to those looking on and called in a loud voice: “Öl!” he cried. “Öl! Fort!”

  Several young boys scampered a
way, returning a few moments later with foaming bowls of brown ale—the preferred drink of all Danemen. Yellow Hair drank deep, emptying the bowl into his mouth and quaffing the heavy liquid in great gulps. When he finished, he wiped his yellow moustache on his sleeve, passed the bowl to his champion, and swaggered to his throne, turned to the watching crowd and, with exceeding ceremony, sat down.

  This, I believe, was an awaited sign, for no sooner had his lordly rump touched the polished oak, than the entire hall lurched into frantic motion. Instantly, men were jostling one another for places at the board while women darted here and there, and everyone in full cry. The noise! Chaos reigned. My head swam.

  Gunnar took his place with the other Sea Wolves who had settled themselves at the board. I was made to stand behind him—not a bad place to be, for there I could observe the bustle of the hall without getting trampled in it—while all around me the people of the settlement prepared a feast.

  Ale jars and bowls began appearing, brought to the board by the serving boys running through the hall. The Sea Wolves guzzled down the frothy brew, elbowing one another impatiently, slapping the board with their hands and crying for more. Cups and jars and bowls circled the hall, passed hand to hand.

  Several men entered carrying a large vat which they set on an iron stand beside their lord’s throne. They proceeded to plunge empty bowls into the vat, and withdrew the vessels full and foaming, and flung them into the maelstrom. Watching the men drink with such zeal, I became aware of my own clawing thirst, but no one gave me anything to drink—nor did I think it likely that they would.

  As the Sea Wolves settled to their drinking, the women and girls hastened forth with baskets of black bread. The sight of all those fine round loaves brought the water to my mouth and a sharp ache to my poor empty stomach. I watched as basket after basket was placed upon the board and men took up loaves—two and three at a time!—broke them and stuffed them into their mouths.

  Meanwhile, several men busied themselves at the fire. Two iron standards were established on either side of the hearth, and when this was accomplished and the flames brightly hot, the men vanished, only to reappear bearing the whole carcass of a cow on a long iron spit. Three spitted pigs and two sheep followed, and all were placed on the standards to turn slowly over the flames. Soon the crack and sizzle of burning fat was added to the chatter of the flames, and the great hall filled with the savoury aroma of roasting meat.

  I thought I would swoon.

  To divert myself from my dilemma I looked elsewhere around the hall and saw, sitting on a stool in a darkened corner, a bent old man; what is more, this man was staring at me most intently. When he saw that I marked his gaze, he rose and shuffled forth—more bear than man, so he seemed, for he was dressed in the shreds of filthy rags and his head weaved back and forth as he walked.

  His features were begrimed with soot and dirt, and the few straggles of hair left to him were a tangled mat of straw and dung. Round-shouldered and lame, he shambled out of his corner to stand before me, regarding me with eyes so wide and lustrous I assumed he must be mad.

  This wretched being stood looking at me for some time, then leaned forward and put his face up next to mine, reached up a grimy hand and rubbed the top of my head—whereupon he laughed out loud, expelling a breath so foul that I gagged and beat the air with my hand. He laughed the more, and I rocked backwards on my heels almost to falling over.

  The old man gave my shaven forehead a last pat, opened his mouth in a toothless grin and said, “What is your name, Irish?”

  Startled, I gaped at him. “I am—” I paused, trying to remember my name. “Aidan!” I said. “My name is Aidan.”

  The odd creature smirked and squirmed. He indicated Gunnar sitting at the board a pace away. “Caught you, boy, did he?”

  “He did that,” I answered.

  The stranger laughed and shook himself all over as if this revelation were a singular pleasure to him. “Verity, verity,” he said and, still laughing, began to sing: “The Sea Wolves go a-viking and fetch back Irish meat and bone. Gold and silver are more to their liking, but these wolves would devour stone!”

  I stared at him in amazement, wondering how this vile being came to speak Latin. Sure, it was a lazy and much-eroded Latin, but the cleric’s tongue nonetheless.

  “Who are you, man?” I asked.

  “Scop, I am,” he replied, “and Scop ever more.”

  “Scop?” I wondered—an unusual name for a most unusual man.

  “It means soothsayer, boy. Skald, the Northmen say; you would say bard.” He laid a dirty finger beside his nose in a knowing way. “I am Truth Speaker to Rägnar Yellow Hair.” At this he indicated the man on the throne with a reverential wave of his hand.

  “His name is Yellow Hair? Truly?” I wondered aloud.

  “It is that. Mind him, now. He is lord of the Geats and Oscingas.” He raised both fists and clashed them together. “Two tribes, mark you. Many knives owe him blood. He is a most worthy gold-giver.” Scop closed one eye and peered at me closely. “Be you slave or hostage, Irish?”

  “Slave, I believe.” I told him about the brief bargaining on the beach.

  The old man nodded and placed a sooty finger on my leather collar. “Slave you are, indeed. But that is for the best. Slaves are often treated better than hostages. You might have done worse, Irish—might have done worse. There are places where the shaven men still bring a fair price.”

  Just then Rägnar saw the old man and called for him. Scop shambled away, laughing and smirking as he went. I stared after him, wondering what manner of man it was that I had just met. I had little time to think about this, however, for Gunnar summoned me.

  “Aeddan!” he shouted, craning his neck.

  I stepped nearer and he thrust his empty cup into my hands. “Öl!” he ordered, pointing at the vat.

  Taking the cup, I made my way to the vat where the boys were busily filling the drinking vessels. I watched how they plunged the bowls and jars into the vat and did likewise. I returned to my place and delivered the jar into my master’s hands. He nodded with a self-satisfied smile, well pleased to have his bargain producing such good return so quickly.

  I took my place behind him once more to observe the revelry. The sight of so much food and drink, devoured with such vigour, made me weak with hunger. I gawked at the baskets of mounded bread, and the glistening meat slowly turning on the hearth; I gazed wistfully at the foam-rimmed cups and bowls continually raised and lowered the length of the board; I heard the rising cacophony of shouts and coarse laughter and hands slapped upon the board. The roister swirled throughout the hall and I stood forlorn, and contemplated a long dry day and hungry night stretching out before me.

  When the meat was roasted, the carcasses were divided and the joints carried to the board where the barbarians fell upon them like the wolves they were. I watched them warm to their feast—hunch-shouldered at their meal, hands grasping, fingers tearing, heads down, teeth sunk in succulent flesh, rich hot juices running from hands and flowing down chins—eating and eating, stuffing themselves to repletion and beyond until, sated, they flopped forward onto the board to sleep. Sure, no wolf pack ever snored more loudly or slept more soundly.

  And when they woke, they fell to eating and drinking again. Their first hunger appeased, they settled into a less frantic consumption. Now they desired amusement to heighten their pleasure, and they began calling upon their skald to provide them songs.

  Up rose Rägnar Yellow Hair from his throne and cried aloud, “Scop! Siung Scop!”

  At this the revellers began pounding the board with hands, cups, and jars. “Scop! Scop!” they called. “Siung! Siung!”

  Out from his noisome corner the Truth Singer shuffled, head wagging slowly side to side as he limped towards the throne, where he stooped to embrace his lord’s legs. Rägnar cuffed him and pushed him away, but there was no violence in the blow. Drawing himself upright, old Scop straightened, shaking back his rags—a dirty bird
preparing to take flight.

  The hall fell silent, anticipation grew keen; the revellers licked greasy fingers and leaned from their benches expectantly as the ragged man, his throat quivering with the effort, opened his mouth and began to sing.

  15

  It is ever the Lord’s good pleasure to hide his more precious gifts in the most unlikely places—earthen vessels hold the rarest treasure after all. Though I have enjoyed many and many a song raised by some of the best voices in the world, I never heard anything to match the sound that issued from old Scop’s throat. It was not beautiful, never that; but it was true. And in its truth was a beauty surpassing that of all the golden ornaments Lord Yellow Hair had bestowed.

  It is said that time vanishes in the song of one blessed of the Word Giver—so the ancient Celts believed. Well, I believe it now, too. For so long as Scop sang, holding each within the hall in thrall to him, binding them like slaves with his subtle, artful chain, time itself stood bound, its relentless flight arrested, unable to move.

  I could not understand the words, which were sung in the thick unlovely speech of the Danefolk; but the broad sense of his utterance I perceived as well as my own mind, for the expressions of both his voice and countenance were miracles of transformation. He sang deeds of valour, and the very blood stirred within me and I yearned to feel strong steel against my hip and thigh. When the song became joyful, he beamed forth with a radiance unknown to any save those who behold Sweet Jesu himself in beatific visions. When the song grew plaintive, sorrow crushed him down with such a weight I feared he would perish; tears streamed freely down the upturned faces of his listeners, and, may Christ have mercy, I wept, too.

  The song finished, and when I dried my eyes Scop had disappeared. I came to myself, blinking, staring around as one roused from a waking sleep. The hall slowly resumed its raucous life; the feasters returned to their gluttony, shaking themselves free of their bard’s enchanted coils.