by Tim Severin
There were about twenty women in the group. Their faces and arms were scratched and torn from branches, several of them had raw bruises on their faces and all of them had their wrists bound together with leather thongs. With their straggly hair and grimy faces they looked a sorry lot. However, Vermundr, standing next to me, disagreed. ‘Not a bad catch,’ he said. ‘Give them a good scrub and they’ll be worth a tidy sum.’ He went forward to inspect them more closely. The women huddled together, several looking piteously across towards their children, who had been set aside. Others kept their heads down so that their tangled hair concealed their features. Vermundr was clearly a veteran slave catcher for he now went from one woman to the next, seizing each by the chin, and forcing back her head so that he could look into the woman’s face and judge her worth. Suddenly he let out a whoop of delight. ‘Ivarr’s Luck!’ he called, ‘Look at this.’ He seized two women by their wrists, dragged them out from the group, and made them stand side by side in front of us. Judging by their bodies the girls were aged about sixteen, though with their shapeless gowns it was difficult to tell precisely, and they kept their heads bowed forward so it was impossible to see their faces. Vermundr changed that. He went behind the girls, gathered up their hair in his hands, and like a trader in a market who flaunts his best produce with a flourish, pulled back their heads so we could see straight into their faces. They were identical twins, and even with their tear-streaked faces it was clear that they were astonishingly beautiful. I remembered how I had bribed Vermundr and Angantyr with a pair of marten skins, perfectly matched. Now I saw in front of me the human equivalent: two slave girls of perfect quality, a matching pair. Ivarr’s felag had found riches.
We did not linger. The light was fading. ‘Back to the boats!’ Ivarr ordered. ‘These people may have friends, and I want us well clear by the time they get together to launch an attack.’ The last rivets were hammered tight on the fetters of the male slaves, and the felag began to withdraw to the sounds of wailing and sobbing from the despairing villagers. Several of the women captives fell to the ground, either because they fainted or because their limbs simply would not carry them away from their children. They were picked up and carried by the kholops. One male captive who refused to budge received a savage blow from the flat of a sword, which sent him stumbling forward. The majority of our captives meekly began to shuffle out of the village.
Ivarr beckoned to me. ‘Come with me, Thorgils,’ he said. ‘Here’s where you might be useful.’
He led me back through the empty village to where the corpse of the shaman lay. I thought he had only gone to retrieve his throwing axe.
‘That’s the same sort of cloak that you wear, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a noiade’s cloak. What you call a magician. Though I don’t know anything about this tribe. They are completely different from the Skridfinni among whom I lived.’
‘But if these people had a magician, then that means they had a God. Isn’t that so?’
‘Very likely,’ I said.
‘And if they had a god and a magician, that means they probably had a shrine to worship at,’ Ivarr looked about us, then asked, ‘And as you know so much about these noiades or whatever you call them, where would you guess that shrine is to be found?’
I was at a loss. I genuinely wanted to answer Ivarr’s question because, like everyone else, I was frightened of him. But the village we had raided bore no resemblance to a Skridfinni camp. These people were settled forest dwellers, while the Sabme had been nomads. The village shrine could be anywhere nearby, hidden in the forest. ‘I really have no idea,’ I said, ‘but if I were to guess, I would say that the noiade was running towards it, either to seek sanctuary there or to plead to his God for help.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ said Ivarr and set off at a brisk walk towards the edge of the dark forest in the direction that the shaman had been fleeing.
The shrine was less than an arrow flight away once we had left the open, cultivated ground and entered the forest. A tall fence of wooden planks, grey with age, concealed the sacred mystery. We walked around the fence – it was no more than thirty paces in circumference – looking for a gateway, but did not find one. I expected Ivarr simply to batter open a gap, but he was cautious. ‘Don’t want to make too much noise,’ he said. ‘We’ve not much time, and the villagers will soon be gathering their forces. Here, I’ll help you over.’ I found myself hoisted up to the top of the fence and I dropped down on the other side. As I had expected, the shrine was a simple place, suitable for such a modest settlement. The circular area inside the fence was plain beaten earth. In the centre stood what I first took to be a heavy wooden post set in the ground. Then I saw that the villagers had worshipped what Rassa would have called a sieidde. It was the stump of a tree struck by lightning and left with the vague resemblance to a seated man. The villagers had enhanced the similarity, carving out the shape of knees, and folded arms, and whittling back the neck to emphasise the head. The image was very, very old.
I spotted the latch that allowed a section of the surrounding fence to swing open, and went to let Ivarr in. He approached to within touching distance of the effigy and halted. ‘Not as poor a village as it seemed, Thorgils,’ he said. He was looking into the plain wooden bowl which the effigy held on its knees. It was where the villagers placed their offerings to their God. I stepped up beside Ivarr and glanced down into the bowl to see what they had given. Abruptly the breath had left my lungs. I felt giddy, not because I saw some gruesome offering, but because a poignant memory came surging into my mind and left me reeling. The bowl was half full of silver coins. Many of them were old and worn and indecipherable. They must have lain there for generations. But several coins on the surface were not yet tarnished and their patterns were instantly readable. All of them bore that strange rippling writing that I had seen during my days in London – a time I would never forget. It was when I had first made love with Aelfgifu and she had worn a necklace of those coins around her graceful neck.
Ivarr ripped the sleeve from his shirt, and knotted the end to create a makeshift sack. ‘Here, Thorgils, hold this open,’ he said as he lifted the wooden bowl from its place and poured in the cascade of coins. Then he tossed the bowl aside. He looked up at the roughly carved head of the wooden statue. Around its neck was a torc. The neck ring was so weatherbeaten that it was impossible to tell whether it was plain iron or blackened silver. Clearly Ivarr thought it was precious metal because he reached up to tug it free. But the torc remained fast. Ivarr was reaching for his throwing axe when I intervened.
‘Don’t do it, Ivarr,’ I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. I feared his violent reaction to anyone who thwarted him.
He turned to face me, and scowled. ‘Why not?’
‘It is a sacred thing,’ I said. ‘It belongs to the sieidde. To steal it will call down his anger. It will bring bad luck.’
‘Don’t waste my time. What’s a sieidde?’ he growled, beginning to look angry.
‘A God, the local God who controls this place.’
‘Their God, not mine,’ Ivarr retorted and swung his axe. I was glad the blow was directed at the statue not me, for it decapitated the wooden effigy with a single blow. Ivarr lifted off the torc and slid it up his naked arm. ‘You’re too timid, Thorgils,’ he said. ‘Look, it even fits.’ Then he ran for the gate.
It was dark by the time we arrived back at the river bank. The crews were already on board the two boats and waiting. They had made the captives lie in the bilges and the moment Ivarr and I took our places the oarsmen began to row. We fled from that place as fast as we could travel and the darkness hid our withdrawal. No natives intercepted us and as soon as we reached our camp Ivarr stormed up the beach, insisting that everyone make ready to depart at once. By dawn we were already well on our way back to the great river highway.
SEVENTEEN
THE SUCCESS OF the slave raid greatly improved the temper of the fe
lag. The underlying feeling of ferocity was still there, but the Varangians showed Ivarr a respect which bordered on admiration. Apparently it was very rare to find girl twins among the tribes, let alone a pair as exquisite as the ones we had captured. There was much talk of ‘Ivarr’s Luck’, and a mood of self-congratulation spread among the Varangians as they preened themselves on their decision to join his felag. Only I was morose, troubled by the desecration of the shrine. Rassa had taught me to respect such places and I had a sense of foreboding.
‘Still worrying about that piddling little village idol, Thorgils?’ said Ivarr that evening, sitting down beside me on the thwart.
‘Don’t you respect any God?’ I asked.
‘How could I?’ he answered. ‘Look at that lot there.’ He nodded towards the Varangians in the nearest accompanying boat. ‘Those who don’t worship Perun venerate their ancestors. I don’t even know who my mother’s ancestors were, and certainly not my father’s.’
‘Why not Perun? From what I’ve heard he’s the same God we call Thor in the Norse country. He is the God of warriors. Couldn’t you venerate him?’
‘I’ve no need of Perun’s help,’ Ivarr said confidently. ‘He didn’t assist me when I was a youngster. I made my own way. Let others believe in forest hags with iron teeth and claws, or that Crnobog the black God of death seizes us when we die. When I meet my end, if my body is available for burial and not hacked to pieces, it will be enough for my companions to treat my corpse as they wish. I will no longer be there to be concerned with their superstitions.’
For a brief moment I thought to tell him about my devotion to Odinn the All-Father, but the intensity of his fatalism held me back and I changed the subject.
‘How was it,’ I asked, ‘that our kholops took part in the raid for slaves with such enthusiasm when they themselves are slaves?’
Ivarr shrugged. ‘Kholops are prepared to inflict on others what they themselves suffer. It makes them accept their own condition more easily. Of course I took back their weapons once they had completed the task and now they are kholops once again.’
‘Aren’t you afraid that they, or our new captives, will attempt to escape?’
Ivarr gave a grim laugh. ‘Where would they find themselves if they did? They are far from home, they don’t know which way to turn, and if they did run away, the first people to find them would merely turn them back into slaves again. So they accept their lot.’
In that opinion, Ivarr was wrong. Two days later he gave our male captives a little more space. The prisoners’ wrist and ankle fetters had been fastened to the boats’ timbers, so they were forced to crouch in the bilges. Ivarr ordered that the shackles be eased so they could stand and move about. As a precaution he kept them chained in pairs. This did not prevent two of our male captives from taking their chance to leap overboard. They flung themselves into the water and made no attempt to save their lives. They deliberately raised their arms and sank beneath the water, dragged down by the weight of their manacles, so there was no chance that our cursing oarsmen could turn and retrieve them.
The great river was now so wide that it was as if we were floating on an inland sea, and we were able to raise sail and greatly increase the distance we travelled each day. A full cargo of slaves and furs meant we had no reason to halt except to revictual the flotilla at the riverside towns which began to appear with increasing frequency. The townsfolk recognised us from a distance because only the Varangian craft had those curved profiles from the northern lands and the local traders were waiting with what we required.
We bought food for our slaves, mostly salted and dried fish, and cheap jewellery to prettify them. ‘A well-turned-out slave girl gets ten times the price than one looking like a slut,’ Ivarr told me, ‘and if she has a pretty voice and can sing and play an instrument, then there’s almost no limit to the money a rich man will pay.’ He had taken me to the market in the largest of the river cities where he had a commercial arrangement with a local merchant. This man, a Jewish Khazar, specialised in the slave trade. In exchange for our least favoured slave, a male, he provided us with lengths of brightly coloured fabric for women’s clothes, necklaces of green glass, beads and bangles, and an interpreter who knew the languages spoken along the lower river.
‘What about the men and children we’ve captured?’ I asked Ivarr as we waited in the Khazar’s shop for the goods to be delivered.
‘The children, that depends. If they are sprightly and show promise, they are easy to sell. Girls are usually more saleable than boys, though if you have a really intelligent male you can sometimes be lucky in Miklagard, the great city, particularly if the lad has fair skin and blue eyes.’
‘You mean for men who like that sort or for their wives?’
‘Neither. Their masters arrange to have their stones removed, then educate them. They become trusted servants, secretaries and bookkeepers and such like. Some have been bought for the imperial staff and have risen to power and responsibility. At the highest levels of the emperor’s government are men who have been gelded.’
I wondered what was in store for the twins we had captured. The Khazar Jew had offered to buy them, but Ivarr would not hear of it. ‘The Jews rival us for mastery of the slave trade,’ he said, ‘but they are middle men. They don’t take the risks of raiding among the tribes. If I can sell the twins direct to a client, the felag will make a far greater profit.’
He had given the two girls into the care of his favourite concubine. She was gentle with them, showing them how best to wash and braid their hair, how to apply unguents to their faces and wear the clothes and jewellery we supplied. When the sun shone brightly, she insisted that the girls wear heavy veils to protect their fair complexions. There was no possibility that the girls would be molested by any of our men. Everyone knew that untarnished twins were far too valuable.
The weather was very much warmer now. We set aside our heavy clothes and took to wearing loose shirts and baggy trousers made of many folds of cotton. The loose trousers meant that we could scramble unhampered about the boat, yet remain cool in the increasing heat of summer. At dusk we landed on sandbanks and slept in the light tents we had purchased so we could take advantage of the night breeze. The river had left behind the dense forests, and now flowed through flat, open country grazed by the cattle of the local tribes whose language, according our interpreter, was spoken by the horse-riding peoples further east. Whenever we encountered the boats of other river travellers, they sheered off like frightened minnows. It did not matter whether people thought of us as Varangian or Rus, it was clear that we had an unsavoury reputation.
‘Ivarr! On the river bank! Serklanders!’ Vermundr called out one hot afternoon. The excitement in his voice made me look round to see what had made him so eager. In the distance was a small riverside village and beside it a cluster of long, low tents made of dark material. In front of the tents half a dozen river boats were drawn up on the shore.
Ivarr squinted across the glare of the river’s surface. ‘Thorgils, you bring good fortune with you yet again,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known Serklanders so far north.’ He ordered the helmsman to steer for land. With our slave raid fresh in my mind, I wondered if Ivarr planned to swoop down on the strangers and rob them like a common pirate.
I said as much to Vermundr, and he sneered back at me. ‘Perun knows why Ivarr thinks so much of you. Serklanders travel well protected, by Black Hoods usually.’
As we came closer to the landing place, I saw what he meant. A squad of men, wearing long dark hooded gowns, emerged from the tents and took up positions on the river bank, facing us. They deployed with the discipline of trained fighting men and were armed with powerful-looking double-curved bows, which they trained on us. Ivarr stood up in the bow of our boat, his brawny arms held well away from his body to show that he was unarmed.
‘Tell them we come to talk of trade,’ he told our interpreter, who shouted the message across the gap. The leader of the Black Hoods brusquel
y gestured that we were not to land close to the tents, but a little further downriver. To my surprise, Ivarr meekly obeyed. It was the first time I had seen him accept an order.
He then sent our interpreter to talk with the strangers while we set up our camp. On Ivarr’s instructions, we took more care than usual. ‘Expect to be here for a few days,’ he said. ‘We need to make a good impression.’ By the time the interpreter returned, we had pitched our tents in a neat row and Ivarr’s favourite concubine had shepherded our batch of slave girls to their own accommodation, a separate tent set beside our leader’s pavilion with its array of rugs and cushions.
‘The Serklander says he will visit you tomorrow after his prayers,’ our interpreter reported. ‘He asks that you prepare your wares for his inspection.’
‘The land of silk, that’s Serkland.’ Ivarr said to me, wiping the beads of sweat from his scalp. He was sweating more than usual. ‘I’ve never been there. It’s beyond the mountains, far to the south. Their rulers like to buy slave girls, particularly if they are beautiful and accomplished. And they pay in honest silver.’
Thinking back to my time with Brithmaer the royal moneyer and his clever forgeries, I hoped that Ivarr was right. ‘If it’s called the land of silk why do they pay in silver?’
Ivarr shrugged. ‘We’ll be paid in silk when we sell our furs in the great city but the Serklanders prefer to use silver. Sometimes they exchange for gems which they bring from their country, like these.’ He tugged at his pearl ear studs and the diamond.