Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  A sound arose from the sea and land. At first I thought it must be the soughing of the water upon the rocky shore, for the soft thunder rose and fell with the regularity of waves. Closer, the sea thunder resolved into human voices singing in a curious, breathless chant.

  And then I was standing inside an enormous chamber wrought of many-coloured stones whose roof was vast as the great curved bowl of heaven—so large that the sun and stars burned in its high firmament. Light poured down in curtained shafts and I moved from the shadow of a mighty pillar towards the light, treading across stone polished smooth by centuries of slow, reverential steps.

  As I walked forward, I heard someone call my name. I looked up into the dazzling light and saw the face of a man. He gazed on me with large, sad eyes, and an expression of infinite love and sorrow. “Aidan,” he said gently, and my heart moved within me for I knew it was Christ himself who spoke.

  “Aidan,” he said again, and oh! my heart melted to hear the sadness of his voice. “Aidan, why do you run from me?”

  “Lord,” I said, “I have served you all my life.”

  “Away from me, false servant!” he said and his voice echoed like the crack of doom.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and when I opened them again, it was night once more and I was lying on the ground beside a fire burned to embers.

  The celebration following King Harald’s announcement proceeded through the next day with no sign of abating. Since Hrothgar’s failed attempt at killing me, no one had so much as raised an eyebrow at my comings and goings. Even my beefy tormentor, whom I had seen several times after the fight, appeared to take no further interest in me. Perhaps, as Gunnar had suggested, he possessed no memory of the scuffle.

  Gunnar, like everyone else, was intensely occupied with the feasting and drinking, and required little of his slave, leaving me free to wander where I would. Thus, I used my liberty to withdraw to a quiet place and pray. It was not easy to find such a place, but a shaded birch bower on the riverbank served as a chapel in the green. Cool, peaceful, the earth soft with thick-grown grass…I spent most of the day there away from the loud revel of the camp.

  I sang the psalms and performed the lúirch léire, the cross-vigil and, feeling penitent and contrite for my lapse in daily worship, recited the Canticle of the Three Youths, whose ordeal in the furnace of fire always produced in me a renewed enthusiasm for devotion.

  Thus, I passed the day happily, and, as a reward for my diligence, indulged in one of Ylva’s sweetmeats; the taste in my mouth gave me pleasant thoughts of her, which I enjoyed as much as the honeyed morsel. Returning from my wildwood cell, I happened to pass by the place where the king’s ship lay anchored; a movement aboard the vessel caught my attention, and I saw two women emerge from the tented covering behind the mast. A third figure stepped from the tent—King Harald himself. He spoke a word to the women, and then disembarked by means of the planks; there were no house karlar to bear him aloft this time.

  He saw me lingering near the ship and stopped. As he appeared about to speak, I also halted. The king stood for a moment staring at me, his forehead low, his gaze menacing. He turned away abruptly, as if the sight of me offended him, and stalked back to his camp, apparently deep in thought, swinging his right arm like a weapon.

  Returning to camp myself, I found Gunnar, Tolar, Rägnar, and several others sitting around an empty tub with cups in their hands, trying to decide who should go and fetch more öl.

  “I think Jarn and Leif should go,” Gunnar was saying. “Tolar and I went last time.”

  Tolar, staring at his empty cup, nodded forlornly.

  “You speak the very truth, Gunnar. But you are forgetting that Jarn and I went twice before,” replied the one called Leif. “I think you are forgetting this.”

  Rägnar raised his cup and drained it. “Well then,” he said, “it seems that I must go.” He made to rise.

  “Nay, jarl,” said Leif, putting out his hand to stay his lord, “we cannot allow that. It is for us to go.”

  “Then I hope it is soon that you are going,” Rägnar replied. “For I fear I will grow too old to raise my cup.”

  Leif sighed heavily, as if shouldering an immense and onerous burden, “Come, Jarn,” he said, making no move to rise. “Our luck is not with us. It seems we have drawn the black stone once again.”

  I stepped into the camp and all eyes turned hopefully to me. “Aeddan will fetch the öl!” cried Gunnar. Pointing to the empty tub, he said, “More. Bring more.”

  I nodded, stooped to the wooden tub, and picked it up. “But he cannot carry it alone,” Gunnar pointed out. His eyes swept the ring quickly. “Tolar must go with him.”

  Tolar raised his head, glanced at Gunnar, shrugged, then put down his cup and stood.

  “Come, Tolar,” I said. “Let us hope there is still a drop or two left.”

  “We must hurry,” said Tolar. Grasping the ale tub, he took it from me and hefted it to his shoulder. “This way,” he said, striding rapidly away.

  Sure, he had never spoken so much at once, nor moved so swiftly. I fell into step beside him and we hastened to the place outside the stone circle where the king’s cooking fires had been established. There were more pigs on the spits, and an ox sizzled slowly over the fire. A stack of casks had been brought up from the ship; several of these had been breached and were being emptied into the larger vats. We joined the others waiting there and watched the golden-brown liquid sloshing into the vats, in a beautiful creamy froth, drawing the slightly sweetish, yeasty scent into our nostrils.

  “Ah!” I said to Tolar, “I wish I had a lake of ale.”

  He smiled and regarded me knowingly.

  “Had I a lake of öl,” I said, raising my hand in the age-old bardic gesture, “I should hold a great ale-feast for the King of Kings and Lord of Lords; I should like the Host of Heaven to be drinking with me for all eternity!”

  Tolar smiled, so I continued, reciting the Brewer’s Prayer: “I should like to have the fruits of Faith flowing in my house for all to taste; I should like the Saints of Christ in my own hall; I should like the tubs of Long-suffering to be at their service always. I should like cups of Charity to quench their thirst; I should like jars of Mercy for each member of that angelic company. I should like Love to be never-ending in their midst; I should like the Blesséd Jesu to be in the Hero’s seat.

  “Ah, mo croi, I should like to hold an everlasting alefeast for the High King of Heaven, and Jesu to be drinking with me always.”

  I do not know what Tolar made of this outburst—probably I had rendered it poorly in the tongue I still spoke so inelegantly, but he endured it with a vague smile. When the vats were replenished, we elbowed our way to the edge and plunged our tub into the foamy depths. Together, holding tight to the rope handles with both hands, we carried the tub back to our camp, careful not to spill even the smallest drop along the way.

  The others praised our diligence and skill as they crowded round with cups in hand. “The Shaven One,” Tolar said, meaning me, “has charmed this öl with a rune to his god.”

  “Is this so?” wondered Rägnar.

  “I said a prayer my people know,” I explained simply.

  “You respect this god of yours,” said Leif, cocking his head to one side.

  “He does that,” Gunnar assured him, taking some pride in this fact. “Aeddan has not ceased making prayers to his god since he came to us. He even makes prayers over our supper.”

  “Indeed?” asked Rägnar wonderingly. “Scop never does this. He was of the Shaven Men, I am told. Is this something your god demands of you?”

  “It is not a demand of the god,” I replied. “It is—” I paused, desperately trying to think how to describe devotion. “It is a thing we do out of gratitude for his care of us.”

  “Your god gives you food and drink?” hooted the one called Jarn. “Now I have heard everything!”

  Talk turned to whether it was worth a man’s time to hold to any gods, and which
ones were best to worship. Leif insisted that it made no difference whether a man worshipped all of them or none. The debate occupied them for a goodly while, the ale vat supplying the necessary moisture when throats grew hoarse from argument.

  Finally, Rägnar turned to me. “Shaven One, what say you? Is it that men should obey the old gods or give them up?”

  “The gods you are speaking of,” I replied carelessly, “are like the chaff thrown to the pigs; they are the dried grass knotted and burned for kindling. They are worth less than the breath it takes to speak out their names.”

  They all stared at me. But the öl was making me feel expansive and wise, so I blustered on. “The sun has set on their day, and it will not rise again.”

  “Hoo! Hoo!” cried Jarn derisively. “Hear him! We have a thul among us now. Hoo!”

  “Quiet, Jarn,” growled Rägnar Yellow Hair. “I would hear his answer, for this question has vexed me sorely many years.” When silence had been enforced, he turned to me. “Speak more. I am listening.”

  “The god I serve is the Most High God,” I told them. Jarn snorted at my presumption, but I ignored him and blundered on, mangling the few words at my disposal, but pushing on regardless. “This God is the Creator of all that is, and ruler of all Heaven and Earth, and of the unseen realms, both above and below. He is not worshipped by way of stone images or wooden idols, but in the heart and spirit of those who humble themselves before him. It is ever his desire to befriend and welcome the people who call upon his name.”

  Leif spoke up. “How do you know this? Has anyone ever seen this god of yours? Has anyone ever spoken to him, eaten with him, drunk with him?” He took a long pull on his cup. The others reinforced themselves likewise.

  “Ah!” I answered. “Many years ago, this very thing came to pass. God himself came down from his Great Hall. He took flesh and was born as an infant, grew to manhood and astonished everyone with his wisdom and the wonders he performed. Many people believed and followed him.”

  “Wonders?” sneered Jarn. “What are these wonders?”

  “He brought dead people back to life, restored sight to men born blind, gave the deaf to hear. He touched the sick with his hands and they were healed. Once, at a wedding feast, he even turned water into öl—”

  “That is a god worthy of worship!” cried Leif enthusiastically.

  “Heya, but the jarls and truth-singers of that land could not abide his presence,” I continued. “Despite the good things he did and taught, the skalds of the kings feared him. So, one dark night, up they leapt and seized him and dragged him before the Roman Magister; they accused him falsely and demanded that he be put to death.”

  “Ho!” shouted Gunnar, growing excited by the tale. “But his followers raised the battle cry and descended upon the Romans and slew them. They cut off their heads and hands, and made a feast for the crows.”

  “Alas,” I informed him sadly, “his followers were not warriors.”

  “Nay? What were they then, jarls?”

  “Neither were they lords. They were fisherfolk,” I told him.

  “Fisherfolk!” hooted Jarn, who acted as if he had never heard anything so funny.

  “Yes, fisherfolk and shepherds and the like,” I replied. “Thus, when the Romans seized him, all his followers scattered to the hills lest they should be caught and tortured and put to death also.”

  “Ha!” laughed Rägnar scornfully. “I would not have run away. I would have driven them down with my spear and axe. I would have stood before them with my shield and fought them like a man.”

  “What happened to this God-man?” wondered Gunnar.

  “The skalds and Romans killed him.”

  “What are you saying!” cried Leif, aghast with incredulity. “Is it that this god of yours was killed by the Romans? If he was truly creator of the world, he could take any form he wished. Why did he not change himself into a fire and burn them up? Could he not seize them and crush them with his mighty strength? Could he not send the death wind among them and slay his enemies in their beds?”

  “You are forgetting,” I said, “that he had become a man and could do only what a man might do.”

  “He let them kill him?” hooted Leif. “Even my hound would never allow such a thing.”

  “Maybe your hound is a better god than the one Aeddan worships,” Jarn suggested maliciously. “Perhaps we should all worship Leif’s hound instead.”

  “Is this so?” demanded Rägnar, frowning with concern. “He let the Romans kill him? How could this happen?”

  “The Roman warriors chained him and took him out; they stripped him, tied him to a post, and beat him with the iron-tipped lash,” I said. “They beat him so hard the flesh came off his bones and his blood covered the ground. Even so, he did not cry out.”

  “That is manful, at least,” put in Gunnar, much impressed. “I am certain Leif’s hound could not do that.”

  “Then, when he was already half dead, they laid a timber door post on his shoulders and made him carry it naked through the city, all the way to Skull Hill.”

  “The Romans are cowardly dogs,” spat Rägnar. “Everyone knows this.”

  “The Romans took him and laid him on the ground…” Putting aside my cup, I lay down and stretched myself in the cross position. “While a warrior knelt on his arms and legs, another took up a hammer and spike, and nailed each arm and leg to the timber beam. Then they hoisted him up and stuck the beam in the ground, leaving him to hang there until he died.”

  My listeners gaped.

  “While he hung high above the ground, the sky grew dark. The wind blew fierce. The thunder roared through the sky-vault.”

  “Did he turn into a storm and strike them all dead with thunderbolts?” wondered Gunnar wistfully.

  “Nay,” I said.

  “What did he do?” asked Jarn suspiciously.

  “He died.” I closed my eyes and let my limbs go limp.

  “It is just as well,” sniffed Jarn. “If your god is so weak and useless as that.”

  “Odin once sacrificed himself in such a way,” Rägnar pointed out. “He hung on the World Tree for nine days and nights, allowing his flesh to be consumed by ravens and owls.”

  “What good is a dead god?” asked Leif. “I have never understood that.”

  “Ah, now you have hit upon the most important point,” I told them. “For after he was well and truly dead, the skalds caused him to be taken down; they put him in a cave and sealed the entrance of the cave with a huge stone—a stone so big not even ten strong men could shift it. This they did because they feared him even in death. And they made the Roman warriors to stand guard over the tomb lest anything should happen.”

  “Did anything happen?” Rägnar asked doubtfully.

  “He came back to life.” I leaped up from the ground, much to the astonishment of my listeners. “Three days after he died, he rose again, and broke out of the cave—but not before he had descended into the underworld and freed all the slaves of Hel.” I used their word, for it very nearly signified the same thing: a place of tortured souls.

  This impressed them greatly. “Heya,” nodded Rägnar in approval. “And did he wreak vengeance on the skalds and Romans who killed him?”

  “Not even then did he demand the blood price. In this he showed his true lordship: for he is a god of righteousness, not revenge—life and not death. And from before the ages of the world he had established loving kindness as the rooftree of his hall. He is alive now, and for ever more. So whoever calls upon his name will be saved out of death and the torment of Hel.”

  “If he is alive,” demanded Jarn scornfully, “where is he now? Have you seen him?”

  “Many have seen him,” I replied, “for he does often reveal himself to those who diligently seek him. But his kingdom is in heaven where he is building a great hall wherein all his people can gather for the marriage feast when he returns to earth to take his bride.”

  “When is he returning?” asked Rägnar.


  “Soon,” I said. “And when he returns the dead will come back to life and he will judge everyone. Those who have practised wickedness and treachery against him, he will exile to Hel where they will mourn for ever that they did not heed him well when they had the chance.”

  “What of those who held to him?” asked Leif.

  “To those who have shown him fealty,” I explained, “he will grant everlasting life. And they will join him in the heavenly hall where there will be feasting and celebrating for ever.”

  My listeners liked this idea. “This hall must be very big to hold so many people,” observed Gunnar.

  “Valhalla is large,” offered Rägnar helpfully.

  “It is bigger than Valhalla,” I said confidently.

  “If it is so big, how can he build it by himself?” wondered Leif.

  “He is a god, Leif,” answered Gunnar. “Gods, as we know, can do these things.”

  “Also,” I added, “he has seven times seven hosts of angels to help him.”

  “Who are these angels?” asked Rägnar.

  “They are the champions of heaven,” I told him. “And they are led by a chieftain called Michael who carries a sword of fire.”

  “I have heard of this one,” put in Gunnar. “My swineherd Helmuth speaks of him often.”

  “He cannot be much of a god if fisherfolk and swine-herds can call upon him,” scoffed Jarn.

  “Anyone may call upon him,” I said. “Kings and jarls, free men and women, children and slaves.”

  “I would not hold to any god my slave worshipped,” Jarn insisted.

  “Has this god a name?” asked Leif.

  “His name is Jesu,” I said. “Also called the Christ, a word which means jarl in the tongue of the Greekmen.”

  “You speak well for this god of yours,” Rägnar said; Gunnar and Tolar nodded. “I am persuaded that this is a matter worthy of further consideration.”