Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Nay,” he murmured, turning woeful eyes on me, “I have never yet heard of a jarl such as that.”

  19

  After walking four days—in a more or less easterly direction—we came to a big river bounded by wide water meadows on either side. In the centre of the meadow on the far side of the river stood an immense stone, marking the council ring, the theng place. On the broad flat lea, and down below on the gentle slopes of the riverbanks, were ranged a number of camps, most with rush-covered huts, though some boasted ox-hide tents.

  We crossed the meadow and made our way along the riverbank to the fording place. “Ah, look, Tolar,” said Gunnar, pointing to one of the tents. “There is Rägnar’s tent.”

  Tolar nodded.

  “Perhaps they can tell us why we have been summoned like this.”

  We waded across the river, and Gunnar and Tolar were hailed by men from various camps, whom they greeted genially as we passed by. Some looked askance—watching me with unfriendly eyes—but no one stopped or challenged me. Perhaps it was because I had been given the task of holding tight to Garm’s collar, lest he bound away to fight with one of the other dogs guarding the various camps. However it was, I was relieved that no one demanded an explanation of me, and I was content simply to observe.

  I had supposed, living among barbarians, that I had grown indifferent to their habits and appearance. I was wrong. The sights that met my eyes as we made our way through the various encampments almost made me gape with amazement. I saw men—and women too, for there were many women in attendance—covered in the skins of wild animals, looking more feral than any of the beasts whose pelts they wore; and there were others who wore nothing at all, and whose bodies were stained with strange designs in blue and ochre. All were big, for the Danefolk are an exceedingly large race, and many, although full-grown, were fair-haired as maidens; but, whether fair or dark, most all of them wore their locks braided in long thick ropes of hair, decorated with feathers, leaves, shells, and wooden ornaments.

  I could but shake my head in wonder.

  Some barbarians, lately arrived, greeted their kinsmen with cries and much commotion; others worked at building shelters and sleeping places. Everyone talked loudly, with much shouting and bellowing. Oh, they are a noisy breed; I could scarce think.

  The mingled scents of food cooking over various fires brought the water to my mouth, even as the smoke stung my eyes. We passed by several small camps and cooking fires, and I looked with longing at the roasting meat and bubbling cauldrons.

  The tent of Rägnar Yellow Hair was a white-spotted oxhide, around which ten or more men sprawled, lazing the day away, waiting for the council to begin. At our approach one of them raised a hand and sang out, alerting anyone who cared that Gunnar and Tolar had arrived.

  “Hey, Gunnar.”

  “Hey, Bjarni. Are you winning the battle?”

  “We are holding our own, I think,” the man said with a yawn. “The king is not here. He is drinking öl with King Heoroth and the jarls.”

  “Where can we make camp?”

  “There is a good place behind the tent—so I was told.”

  “Very well, we will take it,” Gunnar said, and Tolar nodded his agreement. “But please do not trouble yourself. We would not disturb your much-needed rest.”

  “Come drink with us later,” Bjarni said, closing his eyes. I think he was asleep again before we had walked six paces.

  We three spent the rest of the day making camp: I gathered stones from the river to make a fire-ring; Gunnar chopped wood from the huge mounded store of sawn logs King Harald had provided; Tolar gathered reeds from the riverbank. We were about our preparations when Rägnar returned to his tent. Gunnar and Tolar went to greet their lord, leaving me to arrange the bundles of reeds on the ground so we would not have to sleep on the bare earth.

  Thinking we would soon require a cooking fire, I began stripping dry bark to use as kindling. I was about this task when a rough voice captured my attention. Raising my head, I looked around. An enormous man stood over me, glaring down from his height. My heart sank.

  “Greetings, Hrothgar,” I said, hoping to placate the man who had tried to drown me in the king’s ale vat. I lay aside the wood and sat back on my heels.

  “Slaves are not permitted here,” he said, and made other remarks which I could not follow. His speech was slurred with drink, and difficult to understand.

  I did not know what to say, so I simply smiled inoffensively and nodded.

  Reaching down, he grabbed my collar and hauled me upright. He held his face close to mine. “Slaves are not permitted here.” His breath was foul and he stank of sweat and sour beer.

  “Gunnar brought me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are a slave, and you are a liar.”

  “Please, Hrothgar—I want no trouble.”

  “Nay,” he said, a vicious grin spreading across his bloated face, “it will be no trouble.” He pushed me away hard, and I fell sprawling to the ground. “Now I will show you what happens to slaves who use their tongues for telling lies. Stand up on your feet.”

  I rose slowly, a sick feeling spreading through my inward parts. Glancing around quickly, I hoped to see Gunnar returning, but I did not know where he had gone and I did not see him anywhere.

  I thought to call out, and opened my mouth to do so, but Hrothgar’s fist was flying towards my face before I could draw breath to shout. I ducked under the blow and stepped lightly aside. He turned and swung again, and I ducked again.

  “Stop, Hrothgar. Please, stop,” I pleaded, moving another step to the side.

  “Stand still!” he bellowed.

  His booming voice drew the attention of some of the nearer barbarians. They began shouting to one another that there was a fight to be seen, and we were quickly surrounded by a ring of interested onlookers. Some of them called for Hrothgar to catch me, while others urged me to elude him. I took the advice of the latter, and moved slowly sideways, step by step. Each time the great hulking Dane swung at me, I moved aside, sometimes ducking under the blow, sometimes bending backwards out of his reach. And each time he missed, Hrothgar cursed and grew more angry.

  Soon he was sweating and puffing, his face red and ripe to bursting.

  “Let us cease now,” I said. “We have no quarrel, you and I. Let us end this and walk away.”

  “Stand still and fight!” he roared, mad with rage and drink.

  He swung again, and I ducked. But I had gone to that well once too often, and this time he anticipated my movement. As his right hand swung over my head, he threw his left fist low to catch me. Alas, I saw it too late.

  The blow caught me on the jaw. But, drunk as he was, there was no real force in the swing. I fell back, more from surprise and losing my balance, than from the force of the swing. Hrothgar thought he had felled me, however. I let him believe this.

  “You have beaten me, Hrothgar. I cannot fight any more.”

  “Stand up!” he raged. “I will knock you down again.”

  “My legs will not hold me. You have defeated me.”

  “Stand on your feet!” He stooped and snatched up a piece of wood—one of those I had been stripping. This he threw at me. The throw was clumsy and I rolled easily aside.

  I made a chore of climbing to my feet, shaking my clothes all around. With a mighty growl, the barbarian swung at me. I leapt away, side-stepping once again. Hrothgar, unbalanced by the force of his swing, toppled forward onto his knees. This brought a great peal of laughter from those looking on, and a roar of rage from Hrothgar.

  “Please,” I said, “let us stop now, Hrothgar. I cannot fight any more.”

  He pushed himself up and lunged at me, throwing wide his arms. I jumped lightly back and he hugged the earth. Again the throng laughed, and I realized that they were calling for me to defeat him. I gazed around the ring of faces and saw Gunnar and Tolar standing in the forefront jeering with the rest.

  “Gunnar, what shall I do?” I called, bar
ely making myself heard above the crowd.

  “Hit him!” Gunnar called back. “Hit him hard!”

  With a grunt and a curse, Hrothgar heaved himself onto his feet once more and stumbled forward. The crowd cheered more wildly, shrieking with approval and delight. In the same instant I saw a glinting flash out of the corner of my eye.

  I turned just in time to see the knife blade slicing up through the air. I jerked my head away and felt the blade-tip nip my chin. I fell backwards, landing on my rump. Hrothgar, unable to keep his balance, fell forward and landed atop me, trapping my legs beneath his bulk. One swift slash and he would cut my throat, or gut me like a fish.

  Desperate to shift him, I kicked and heaved, but could not move my legs. Hrothgar, still gripping the knife, made a clumsy swing. I threw myself back and heard the thin whisper of the blade in the air—and I heard a crack as my head struck something hard: the piece of wood Hrothgar had thrown at me. My hand closed on it at once. If I had any thought at all, it was only to use the wood to fend off the knife.

  Hrothgar, laying crossways on my legs, lunged blindly. His arm went wide, and his head flopped down with the effort. The rounded mound that was the back of his head presented itself to me and I struck it. The wood bounced off the barbarian’s skull with a hollow sound which so surprised me that I swung again—harder.

  Hrothgar gave out a grunt and lay on his face in the dirt.

  A moment later, Gunnar and Tolar were rolling the brute aside. Men came forward to slap me on the back, and declare what a quick-witted fighter I was.

  “I did not mean to hit him so hard,” I said to Gunnar. “Is he injured, do you think?”

  “Hrothgar hurt?” Gunnar chuckled, much amused. “Nay, nay. His head will ache as much from the öl as from the puny knock you gave him.”

  I observed the prostrate body doubtfully. “I fear I have only made matters worse. Hrothgar will be very angry with me now.”

  Gunnar waved aside my worry. “Nay, by the time he wakes up, he will have forgotten all about it. Still, I think you were lucky,” Gunnar observed affably.

  Tolar the Taciturn nodded in sage agreement.

  “I should teach you to fight. That way you would not be forced to rely on luck—she often proves a flighty bedmate.”

  “Heya,” confirmed Tolar in a tone that conveyed years of bitter experience.

  Rägnar Yellow Hair approached boldly, his countenance severe. Scop, his Truth Sayer, fluttered at his side like an overgrown buzzard. Rägnar glanced from Gunnar to me; I expected the worst. He held out a silver coin which Gunnar accepted and tucked into his pouch. With a dark glance at me, he turned and walked away. Scop flapped after him.

  There came a sound so strange and loud that it halted any further talk; everywhere men stopped and stared at one another.

  “That will be Harald Bull-Roar,” Gunnar said, looking away towards the river.

  “There!” shouted Bjarni, standing before the tent. “Jarl Harald arrives!”

  I looked where the man was pointing and saw, moving among the trees and shrubs along the river, a red-and-white expanse. To a man, the whole camp began walking to the river, where, after a few moments, the huge thundering bellow sounded again and a ship sailed into view.

  The vessel was sharp-keeled and long, its prow rising high to end in the fierce, fire-eyed, serpent-toothed head of a dragon; the stern rose likewise to become a forked tail. Both stern and prow had been painted red and yellow; the ship’s sides were black, and the sails alternating red-and-white in broad handsome stripes. Fresh-limed shields hung on the rail, and ranks of oars bristled from the sides. Ah, yes, it was a sight to stir the heart and make the blood run swift in the veins.

  Those gathered on the banks hailed the fine vessel with lusty shouts; some, overcome with zeal, leaped into the water and swam to the ship to clamber up the sides and join the warriors at the rail. The bellowing sounded again, shaking the very ground beneath our feet, and I saw that this extraordinary noise was produced by two enormous battle horns manned by two barbarians each, who took it in turn to blow into the instruments, lest one of them grow faint.

  Rägnar, surrounded by his men, rose to watch the arrival. “A fine-looking ship,” he observed. “Had I a longship half so good, it would be Harald paying me tribute, and not the other way.”

  Lifting a hand to the vessel, which was now coming to rest against the bank, Gunnar said, “Ship? I see no ship, Jarl Rägnar. Nay! It is our silver tribute I see before us—with dragon head and banded sails now, but it is our silver just the same.”

  “Indeed,” Rägnar agreed bitterly. “And now that I see the trove of wealth we have given him, I am sick at heart.”

  Tolar nodded and, on sudden inspiration, he spat.

  They continued complaining like this, each one having his say, but all the time their eyes kept stealing over the long, sweeping lines of the ship and its high, handsome sails. And step by step they moved down to where wooden stakes were now being hammered into the earth for the ropes which would secure the vessel. I found myself walking beside Scop.

  “So! The monk becomes a warrior,” he sneered. “Mayhap warriors will now wield pens.”

  “The beer unhorsed Hrothgar,” I said. “I merely provided a soft place for him to fall.”

  Scop made a nasty grunt and reached up a filthy hand to pat my clean-shaven tonsure. “Shaven One,” he cooed malevolently.

  Ignoring his foul mood, I said, “I did not think to see you again.”

  “Ha!” he scoffed. “Dost think it a happy surprise?”

  “I do,” I replied, annoyed at his disagreeable manner. “And I thank God for it, too.”

  The Truth Sayer looked sideways at me. Seizing me suddenly by the arm, he spun me to face him. “Look around you, Irish. Is this your precious abbey? Are these your brother priests?”

  Before I could make an answer, he put his filthy hand upon my neck and drew me close. “God abandoned me, my friend,” he whispered with strangled rage. “And now, Aidan the Innocent, he has abandoned you!”

  With that, he stumped away quickly, taking himself back to camp alone. I watched him go, frustrated and angered by his impudence and presumption. Shaking off the disgust of his provocation, I continued on to the river-bank and rejoined the others gathered there.

  King Harald had arrived with all his house karlar and three of his five wives. Some of the other women who had come with their men noticed and made much of this fact. Several warriors dropped over the side of the ship and into the water; they waded onto dry land, while others readied a number of long planks made from split pine trees. The planks were placed between the rail and bank, and made secure by the men on the bank.

  Only then did Harald Bull-Roar deign to show himself. And when he did it was to the astonished delight of the throng.

  20

  King Harald Bull-Roar, Jarl of the Danefolk of Skania, arose from the ship like Odin himself, arrayed in blue the colour of a northern midnight; he stood in the bright sunshine, glinting of gold and silver, his long red beard brushed and its ends braided. Gold sparkled on his chest, at his throat and on each wrist; seven silver bands were on his arms, and seven silver brooches secured his cloak.

  He stepped to the rail, and I saw that he was barefooted. Gold and silver bracelets gleamed at his ankles. He was a big man: deep-chested, with thick-muscled arms, and long, strong legs. Standing tall upon the rail, a king in the prime of life, he gazed with quick, intelligent eyes upon the assembled host.

  A king is a king anywhere, I thought. Harald had the same regal bearing of any lord I had ever seen. Sure, he and Lord Aengus were brothers under the skin; each laying eye to other would have recognized royalty. Of this I had no doubt.

  Raising his hands in salutation, he opened his mouth to speak and I saw that youthful battles had left him with a livid scar from chin to throat. He spoke in a voice both deep and loud, turning this way and that, and spreading wide his arms as if to embrace all those thronged below him on
the bank.

  The substance of his speech seemed to be about setting aside differences during the council. I think he called on everyone to sit down together in peace as free men in order to best decide what to do—or something like that. It is the sort of speech all lords make when they want their way, and there was much sceptical grunting and clearing of throats.

  Then, without the least hesitation, Harald lifted one bare foot and stepped from the ship’s rail into the air. Some of the women gasped, but they need not have worried. For as the king stepped out from the rail, a hand appeared and caught his foot. Another hand joined the first, and the king took another step. Two more hands—those of the warriors who had set out the planks—caught the king’s right foot and bore him up.

  In this way, Jarl Harald was conveyed onto the river-bank, carried by his house karlar as he stood upright—a most impressive feat. For the rest of the day, it was all anyone talked about: “Did you see how they carried him?” “Heya! The king’s feet never touched the earth!”

  Harald Bull-Roar was carried to the place where his tent would be erected; a red oxhide was spread upon the ground and the king sat down to receive the homage of his people. Everyone came before him, some to lay themselves at his feet, others to bestow gifts of honour and welcome. The jarl accepted his honours with good grace, and I found myself liking the man for his easy deference, despite any misgivings Gunnar or Rägnar might have had—and I did not doubt their fears were genuine, and with ample reason. But Harald was a winsome man: all smiles and bright confidence, always bringing his people close with a gesture or an intimate word.

  I watched as he sat upon the red oxhide, calling his noblemen by name, disarming them with flattery and praise. Even before the theng began, the king was plunged deep into his campaign. Men approached him, wooden in speech and movement, full of doubt and mistrust, only to rise again a moment later, beaming, conviction and faith rekindled by a word and a touch.