by Robert Low
I wondered about Illugi. He was a godi, a priest, of course, but most priests were jarls, too. But in the Oathsworn, Einar clearly ruled. It was bewildering for me, this new life – and for others, too, forced to go into the town to get drunk at one of the ale houses set up for foreign travellers and try out the whores there, though they grumbled at having to spend silver on humping that they could never get back.
But even if someone could be persuaded to part with a girl, taking her back to the Guest Hall was a waste of time, since the disapproving eyes of the goodwives, who came and went as they chose, tended to have a shrinking effect. Things, it was generally agreed, were not changing for the better.
There was news, too, brought by traders in coloured cloth tunics and trousers, some dressed like Skapti, who told of those lost in the cataracts of the Rus rivers that year. Like old Boslof, sucked under Holmfors, Island-force, which was an indignity to a man who had survived the insatiable, boulder-strewn torrents of the Drinker, the Courser, the notorious Wave-force and all the rest of the deadly rapids that marked the route to Konugard – Kiev, the Slavs called it. The last seven were so vicious that the Christ-worshippers called them the Deadly Sins after some tale in their holy sagas.
I also heard about Arnlaug, dead of the squits, despite offering up a good ram to the tree on Oak Island, which the Christmen were calling St Gregor’s Island, the first haven after the last of those seven rapids. Having shat himself with fear going down all of them, it seems this Arnlaug couldn’t stop and wasted away, so that he was a husk when they came to burn him.
Burn him they did. They had turned to the old ways in the east, ever since the Kura raid some twenty years before, when two hundred ships, they say, entered that river south of Baku and put the town of Berda to the flame and the blade, all the Mahomet-worshippers there.
In turn, the raiders were attacked by Mussulmen – and the same sort of squits that took Arnlaug – and had to retreat, whereupon those Aesir-cursed heathens had dug up the respectably buried and stripped them of the fine weapons and armour left in their boatgraves.
Now the traders burned their dead instead, as hot as they could make it, so that armour melted. As well, they broke the swords into three pieces, to be reforged across the rainbow bridge, but not in this life.
That, as one silver-bearded, garrulous old veteran of the rivers and rapids pointed out, was in Igor’s time, who was seventy-five and his wife, the famous Olga, sixty when they gave the Rus their prince, Sviatoslav, whose wars on the Bulgars and Khazars now strangled the silver life out of Birka.
And everyone nodded and marvelled at the wyrd of it and shook their heads over the future.
They shook their heads, too, over the new trade agreements with Miklagard, the Navel of the World, which meant they could not purchase more than fifty gold pieces’ worth of silk and had to have a stamp to prove it.
Nor could groups of more than fifty men, all unarmed, enter that city of New Rome, which they called Constantinople. Ridiculous, everyone agreed – even, admittedly, if fifty gold pieces’ worth of silk made a fair number of trousers.
Except, noted Finn Horsehead, if they were for Skapti Halftroll. He’d be lucky to get a pair and a spare out of that much material. And everyone laughed, even the merchants, who grudgingly admitted they were given free equipment and a month’s provisions for their return to Kiev, which they now had to do, by law of the Emperor, every autumn. Miklagard’s finest did not want roistering Norsemen over-wintering in their nice city.
More to the point, as several men fresh from Denmark’s trade port of Hedeby revealed, King Hakon was dead and gone and Harald Bluetooth was now indisputable ruler of both Norway and Denmark after a great battle at the island of Stord in the Hardangerfjord. There Hakon lost both his life and his throne to those who were once both his bitterest enemies and his closest kinsmen.
And Illugi Godi rapped his staff appreciatively on the hearthstones at the news that Hakon had been carried to Saeheim in North Hordaland and howed up there with Odin rites, so that the king who had followed Christ until his moment of death was now revered by the old gods, joining his eight brothers, the sons of Harald Fairhair, in Valholl.
Now the five sons of Eirik Bloodaxe and their mother, Gunnhild, fairly to be called Mother of Kings, were returned to Norway and the armies were broken up. Most, being farmers and good, steady men, had sensibly gone home. A few – too many for some – were now prowling, looking for fresh work or easy looting.
I listened and watched and learned at the feet of these, the wondrous far-travelled, watching their faces in the flickering red firelight. I saw who was for the White Christ and who was not, who was trading and who watched for a chance to raid.
Especially, I watched Einar listen and stroke his moustache and, when he paused, knew that bit of news was more important. Then he would resume stroking and I could see him turning it over in his head.
The tidings of new armed men was what clearly concerned him: competition in a world already crowded with it. The garrison of Birka was made up of rootless men looking for somewhere to put their boots, a wife, a hall, a hearthfire. Einar could see the value of a good sword-arm drop by the day.
‘If he does not call me soon,’ I heard him confide to Ketil Crow, ‘I will have to get his attention.’
I knew at once the ‘he’ Einar spoke of: Brondolf Lambisson, the leader of the Birka merchants. Einar had sent the saint’s box up to the Borg with Bagnose and Illugi the day after we’d arrived. They gave it personally to Martin the monk and had back assurances that Brondolf Lambisson would speak to them soon – and then, nothing.
I never found out what Einar had in mind to attract attention, because the next night one of the leather-clad garrison slouched into the Guest Hall and told Einar he was expected in the Borg.
So Einar called Illugi and, surprisingly, me, to go with him. As I collected my cloak, he took me by the arm and said, almost in my ear, his breath strong with herring, ‘Not a word that you can read, let alone the Latin.’
For me, it was exhilarating to be out in the town, under the fitful stars and scudding clouds, following the flash and sway of the lantern as the garrison man led the way down the slippery planked walkways, me dodging rain barrels and trying to keep my feet.
I was delighted, amazed and repelled all at once – so much so that Illugi had to cuff my head once and mutter, ‘If you swivel that neck any more, boy, your head will fall off. Watch your feet, or you will end in the muck.’
He paused as a drunk staggered up, tried to avoid the group of us, slipped and crashed off the walkway into the stinking mire on one side. ‘Like him,’ he added, scowling and vainly trying to wipe splashes off his tunic.
Behind us, the drunk spluttered and gurgled and got up blowing, then splashed back on to the planks and squelched unsteadily off.
I have seen the other towns since. Hedeby was bigger, Kiev was better and Miklagard, the Great City, could swallow them both and not notice. But Birka, in the first flush of unfolding spring, was like some wild and garish flower.
Every house had a light and noise from it: laughs, shouts, singing. All the treacherous walkways had people – so many people, in streets that stank of cooking and spilled ale and shite. They say, at that time, a thousand people lived in Birka. I had never seen a hundred people in one place at one time.
I scarcely realised we were climbing until the pulsing crowd of humanity slackened, then disappeared, and we emerged from the shadowed eaves of quieter houses almost under the stockade and main gates of the Borg.
Inside, unadorned and massive, the dark masonry of the fortress loomed, sparked with golden glow here and there. A small, iron-ringed door and a flight of steps took us into a flagged courtyard, on the other side of which some more steps spiralled wearily to yet another door.
Through this I stumbled, following the others, drunk on the sheer sensation of it all, spilling into a great golden glow of light from torches on sconces, which made the guide’s
feeble lantern look as if it had gone out.
The place was hung with rich tapestries crusted with gold threads and embroidered with scenes that, in the flickering light, looked as if they were coming alive. I didn’t understand any of them – save a hunting scene – but several had those people with round hats of gold, so I thought they must be to do with the White Christ.
The very floor, of polished wood, seemed to gleam and I felt my boots on it were an affront.
A new figure appeared, nodded to the guide and smiled affably at Einar, quizzically at me and, lastly, offered a fixed politeness to Illugi Godi.
He wore a brown robe tied with a clean, pale rope and soft, slippers. His face was sharp, smooth, clean-shaven, his eyes black and his brown hair cut the same length all round. The torchlight bounced off his bald scalp – no, not bald, I realised suddenly. Shaved and, by the fuzz on it, in need of renewing.
‘Martin monk,’ acknowledged Einar with a nod. ‘Brondolf has news, then?’
‘Our master has something to impart, yes,’ answered Martin smoothly, then turned to Illugi Godi. ‘Still a heathen, I see, Master Illugi? I had hoped Our Lord would see fit to deliver another miracle as we approach Easter.’
‘Another miracle?’ responded Illugi. ‘Has there been one recently, then?’
‘Indeed,’ answered Martin, almost joyously. ‘My own bishop, Poppo, has convinced Harald Bluetooth of the power of God and Christ, who died for our sins. He wore a red-hot iron glove to prove it. So it is that Bluetooth is now to be gathered into the flock of God and given His mercy.’
‘Where is Brondolf?’ Einar demanded.
‘On his way,’ replied Martin easily. ‘He has asked that I offer you his hospitality – please come to the fire. And who is this?’
Einar jerked a thumb at me and shrugged. ‘Orm, son of my shipmaster, Rurik. He has never been anywhere, or seen anything, so I thought to bring him, for the learning in it.’
‘Indeed,’ mused Martin. ‘I see you have seen the Light and been gathered into God’s grace.’
Puzzled, I saw him glance at the cross on my chest and was appalled that he should think me a Christ-follower. ‘I had it from a man I killed,’ I blurted without thinking. Einar chuckled. Martin, unsure whether I had just been witty or stupid, led the way to a table with benches and we sat.
It was here, for the first time, that I found food could be remarkably different. Women came, soft-slippered so that they scarcely made more than a whispering sound, and served up fillets of fish stuffed with anchovies and capers, shellfish which we hooked out with silver picks, cutlets of lamb, bloody-rare, ripe with wild garlic and melting in my mouth, all washed down with wine, which I had never tasted until now.
Food. Until Birka, all food was mud-coloured – brown, or yellow or red – and tasted of fish, even the meat, since we fed livestock on fish leavings. I could hardly breathe for the sight and smell of that table.
And all the while Martin chattered about the storms and the news of Stord and how unfortunate it was that Hakon could not be gathered into the bosom of Christ as was proper, but no doubt God would overlook the heathen propensities of his followers and gather him anyway.
Which prompted a sharp response from Illugi Godi and then they were off into argument, leaving Einar and me behind. I listened with half an ear as Illugi tried to explain that the Vanir were not the same as the Aesir, were older gods and some, like Ull, were not much worshipped.
Einar. I caught him looking at me as I looked at him, and saw that his expensive silver cup was scarcely touched. Then I saw myself as he saw me, cheeks bulging with lamb, gravy on my chin, wild with the sheer, unbelievable sensuality of the whole affair.
I swallowed, sobered. Einar grinned and I followed his gaze to the arguing pair.
Illugi was in heated debate about the tale of Bishop Poppo and the wearing of the red-hot glove and Martin was smiling and answering him blandly.
Suddenly, as if a veil was whipped away, I saw, as I knew Einar did – had done since we arrived – that Martin was stalling. The wine, the food – even the argument – were all a feint, as when a man looks for an opening under a shield.
‘Where, then,’ Einar demanded, ‘is Brondolf?’
If he had hurled the silver cup to the polished wood of the floor he couldn’t have created more of a silence. Martin looked round, blinked and sighed.
‘I had hoped he would be here to tell you himself, but it seems that he has been caught up in events,’ the monk said in his gentle, accented voice. ‘Things are happening in the wider world – Bluetooth, for one – which have to be dealt with.’
‘What was in the saint’s box?’ asked Einar quietly.
Martin shrugged. He paused, then answered, ‘Bones. Some writings, but not what I had hoped.’ He rose and crossed to a small chest, opened it and took out a cloth bag, which chinked softly. ‘Brondolf is disappointed in me, I fear,’ he went on with a wry, deprecating smile, which twisted his face into a gargoyle mask for a moment. ‘He is now looking for more … practical … ways of restoring Birka’s fortunes, since my poor efforts have failed.’
‘And what were these poor efforts?’ asked Einar, leaning forward so that the black pillars of his hair framed his face, making it even more pale than usual, his eyes deep-sunk pools. I was reminded of Eyvind, who had seen Thought, Odin’s raven.
Martin spread his arms dismissively and smiled. ‘I thought I had found a great ikon of Christ, one which would have made a church in Birka a pilgrimage for Christians everywhere. It seems I was wrong.’
‘What was this ikon?’ asked Illugi. Einar’s dark-pool eyes never left Martin’s face and made it hard for the priest to broaden the smile. I knew, at that moment, he was lying and the vision of a great mountain of silver, Atil’s hoard, made my heart lurch. It could be real after all.
Martin spread his thin-fingered hands – stained with what seemed to be burn marks – and shrugged. ‘It scarcely matters, Illugi,’ he said smoothly. ‘You know how many there are. Like so many others, this turned out to be a fake. If you took all the knuckle-bones of St Otmund and assembled them you would find a miracle. He had four hands, at least.’
Smiling, he stepped forward and placed the cloth bag in front of Einar with a soft, chiming chink. ‘Brondolf thanks you for your efforts. You are free to go where you please.’
The air grew still and no one moved. It was as if we were all frozen and the longer the moment went on, the more painful the attempt to move became.
Then Einar, with a swiftness that startled us up like swallows, scooped up the bag and stood. In a second, there was nothing but movement, as if that had released us from some spell. Einar strode off without a word. Illugi Godi, I saw, sensed that something had happened but wasn’t sure what. Politeness stayed him long enough to thank Martin and offer all the usual platitudes and get them in return.
For my part, I saw the monk’s eyes flick, just once, to the door. On the back of it, on a hook, hung a hooded cloak.
Einar waited for us in the courtyard, where a fresh, clean, cold wind drove out the cobwebs, streamed out our hair, hissed over the flagstones and rattled the little gate as we were quietly ushered out and handed a lantern. No guide back to the Guest Hall, then.
‘You might have had more regard for hospitality,’ chided Illugi Godi and Einar, only half listening, grunted a reply.
‘He paid in silver, in a town where silver is scarce as hen’s teeth. He wanted no argument and he wanted no bartering for goods on tally sticks. He wants us gone, does Brondolf Lambisson – but had to leave it to the monk, such a delicate thing. So what could have been more pressing to him that he could not come himself?’ He turned to me suddenly. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.
I knew at once what he meant, felt strange, as if perched on a cliff like some fledgling gull, waiting for a suitable wind, working to that moment of hurling off and trusting to new wings.
‘He was lying,’ I said, sure of it as I was of my own palm. ‘
Brondolf is somewhere else, as you say. Since he is so important, it must be someone more important than him. Since, I am thinking, there is no one more important than him in this place, then it must be a foreigner and a chief at least …
‘And the monk was waiting for us to go, for he has business abroad.’
I told him of the cloak on the back of the door. Illugi’s eyes widened and Einar halted, so that we all nearly ran into him. He turned to me, a grim smile on that pale face. I wished he wouldn’t do that, since it was worse than no smile at all.
‘Most men think in a straight line,’ he said, barely audible over the town’s noise and the wind. ‘They see only their own actions, like a single thread in the Norns’ loom, knotted only when they thrust their life on others. They see through one set of eyes, hear through one set of ears, all their life.’ He stared at me. ‘To look at things through someone else’s eyes is a rare thing, which cannot be learned. To those with the gift, it is not hard, nor complicated. But, to survive and be more than any others, it is essential. You have that gift, I am thinking.’
I was stunned and swelled with it. In that moment, I almost loved the great, glorious being that was Einar the Black, yet, even then, the very gift he praised me for slipped a memory, the blade-bright thought: this man had snicked off the head of Gudleif, for almost no reason other than he could.
We tramped back to the North Gate and were almost out when a figure loomed from the dark, with others behind. I saw Gunnar Raudi, Ketil Crow, Bagnose, Pinleg and others, wild-eyed, wild-haired – and sober.
Gunnar Raudi’s grim face, grimmer still in the play of lamplight loomed up to Einar and said, ‘Ulf-Agar is missing. Steinthor says men took him.’
FOUR
‘They were armed,’ Steinthor growled. ‘Armed and in the town, Einar.’ He held out his forearm, showing a rough strip of bloodstained cloth, the ends whipping in the wind. Around him, Einar, I, Illugi and others gathered, stone-grim.