Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Oh, Jarl Harald was a very master of kingcraft: subtle, shrewd, persuasive and reassuring, slaying his opponents’ objections before they knew to contradict or oppose him.

  Sure, I had seen such power once or twice before. For all his gold and silver, this barbarian lord reminded me of Bishop Tudwal of Tara, renowned for his composure, his confidence, his easy mastery of men.

  Nor did Gunnar and Tolar, for all their apprehensions, remain aloof from the king’s considerable charm. I waited as they performed their duties of respect; they returned glad-hearted and confident once more. When I asked what the king had told them to bring about such a change, Gunnar demanded, “Have I ever said a word against the king? You must learn to be more trusting, Aeddan.”

  This advice brought a concurring nod from Tolar.

  Of all the jarls and free men I observed, only Rägnar remained aloof from the king’s winning ways. Perhaps he knew too much of kingcraft to be easily swayed by the methods he himself employed from time to time. Perhaps he found it hard, being a lord, to allow himself the indulgence of complete conviction. Many tribesmen depended upon him and his judgement; whatever others might think or do, his own thoughts and actions were circumscribed by his obligations. Thus, Rägnar Yellow Hair could not give complete allegiance to any man, and still remain king in more than name only.

  Proud men are all alike. No doubt he resented having Harald over him. Paying tribute was bad enough; he did not like to be seen bowing low as well. I imagine it might have been the same with some of the other lords, but I could not observe them all. Even so, it seemed that when the ceremony of greeting had been concluded, the battle was over and the king had claimed the field. He had, it seemed to me, sowed seeds of hopeful anticipation among the people and then withdrew to let those seeds sprout and take root.

  Sure, the mood of the camp that night was buoyant with expectation; all across the meadow, men gazed at one another over the fire and speculated on the council: What would tomorrow bring? What would the king propose?

  Though I had no part in the proceedings—nothing they decided could possibly affect me one way or another—I could still feel the intense anticipation of the assembly. It was late into the night before anyone could sleep.

  Early the next morning, a single large drum summoned the jarls and free men to the theng-stone. We were breaking fast when the drumming began. Gunnar and Tolar stood at once. “It is beginning,” Gunnar said, throwing aside the bone he was gnawing. “Hurry! We will sit in the forerank.”

  Unfortunately, everyone else had the same notion; hence the call became less a summons than the start of a race, as from all the scattered camps the men hastened to the meeting place. The few women stood to look on with longing, though some boldly followed their men to the nearest allowable perimeter of the council ring—a boundary marked out by a circle of small boulders.

  Emboldened by the womenfolk’s example, I took a place at the outer ring, while Gunnar and Tolar elbowed their way towards the centre of the circle. The best places were already taken, so I stood in the press, straining for a view of the proceedings. At first, nothing appeared to transpire, but then I noticed an old man hobbling around the theng-stone, shaking a gourd filled with pebbles. Muttering and mumbling, he staggered in a strange, stiff-legged gait around and around the upright stone.

  “Skirnir,” someone nearby said, and I guessed that was his name. He was, I decided, one of those curious creatures known as a skald—probably, he was advisor and counsellor to King Harald.

  Dressed in a short, ragged siarc and breeches of scraped deerskin, old Skirnir continued his muttering incantations for a time, and then lay aside the gourd and, picking up a wooden bowl, spattered a liquid—perhaps oil of some kind—onto the standing stone using a small bundle of frayed birch twigs which he grasped in his right hand. Each time he dipped the twigs into the bowl he called the god’s name; and each time he shook the oil onto the rock, he sneezed.

  When he had circled the great stone a number of times, he placed the bowl upon the ground and then, placing his hands in the oil, proceeded to speckle the surface of the rock with handprints—sometimes patting the stone with his palms, and sometimes hugging it in a wide-armed embrace. While he was thus employed, King Harald emerged from his place among the onlookers; he had something tucked under his arm, but I could not see what it might be.

  After the skald finished anointing the stone, he turned to the king and gestured for the object he carried, which turned out to be a chicken. Before I could think why Jarl Harald should be holding a chicken, the king lifted the bird, raising it high for all to see, then gave it to Skirnir who likewise raised the bird—once, twice, three times, lifting it on high—then offered it to the king, who took its head and beak into his mouth for a moment. A strange sight, that: the king standing before the people with the head of a live chicken in his mouth.

  Then the skald gave a loud shout and started to shake all over. His hands and shoulders quivered, his legs shook and his body trembled. All at once he seized the chicken and held it high; he began to spin, trembling all the while. Around and around he spun, whereupon he gave his arm a sharp jerk. There came a crack and the chicken’s head snapped off in his hand. The poor bird began running and hopping and fluttering; old Skirnir, keen-eyed, followed its headless flounderings on hands and knees, observing the pitiful bird’s death throes. Blood spattered onto the skald and onto the stone.

  Everyone held their breath, leaning forward in keen anticipation, as the chicken’s flopping gradually diminished. At last, the sorry bird lay still, its feathers quivering gently while it died. Then up leaped Skirnir, and with a loud voice proclaimed the omen favourable—although he did so in such an uncouth speech that I could not make out all he said. The people seemed pleased, prodding one another and nodding solemnly.

  Let it here be known that I place no confidence in oracles or omens; neither do I believe in the old gods. Their powers, if any, derive from the will of those who persist in such faulty thinking. I do not say the old gods are demons only—though many wiser heads assure me that this is so—but they are hollow vessels, incapable of bearing the weight of men’s belief. In elder days, people clung to such gods as they could find. All was darkness then, and men fumbled in ignorance for anything to hold against the savage night.

  But, see, the light has come; day has dawned at long last! That is good news. And it is no longer acceptable to worship those things embraced in darkness. That is my belief. If I did not condemn the barbarians for their misguided faith, perhaps I may be forgiven what some of my more zealous brothers would certainly consider my sinful lack of piety and devotion. No doubt, if they had been in my place they would have scorched the very earth itself with the fire of their transforming righteousness.

  But I am a weak and sinful monk, I freely confess it. Even so, I have resolved to tell the truth. Judge me how you will.

  After the omen had been judged auspicious, Skirnir proclaimed the theng commenced. Gathering his gourd, bowl, and chicken carcass, the skald withdrew and Harald came before the assembly, declaring himself pleased that so many had answered his summons.

  “My kinsmen and brothers,” he called in his deep bull voice, throwing his arms wide as if to embrace the assembly. “It does cheer me greatly to see you standing before me, for we are indeed a mighty people. I ask you now: Who is able to stand against the Daneman when he is roused in wrath? Our skill is both dire and formidable. The might of our arms is feared by all the world. Who is able to stand against it?”

  Harald thrust his arm in the air as if brandishing a sword, and cried, “Who is able to stand against the Daneman when the wrath of Odin fills his veins with fire?”

  Murmured voices rejoined with assurances that no one could stand against the wrath of the Danefolk. The king then commenced a long speech in which he described how all the world trembles when the longship keel slices the deep waters, and how all the world cowers in fear when the Sea Wolf hunts the sea trails. These senti
ments were conveyed with much thrusting of imaginary swords and rattling of imaginary spears on invisible shields.

  The murmurs now chorused agreement; several cheered, encouraging the king aloud. Most remained silent, but everyone was intent, eyes and ears keen, eager for their great Jarl to declare what had moved him to summon the theng. Seeing that he had them on his side, Harald moved to the heart of his concern.

  Now, I have heard of warriors who can leap from one horse to another in full gallop and never miss a stride. This feat Harald now performed. “Brothers,” he said, “I know that the yearly tribute weighs heavily on your shoulders. I know that such a burden is difficult to bear.”

  The king said this with convincing sympathy, as if it were some other lord that had imposed this onerous weight upon his people. He then declared, with an expression of utter conviction, that he would be a vile king indeed if he stood by and did nothing to ease the weight of law from his people’s shoulders.

  This produced a minor commotion as the people tried to work out what Harald could possibly mean. “Therefore,” the king said, “I have devised a means by which the tribute…” The king’s listeners leaned forward expectantly. “—by which the tribute may be forgiven.”

  Sure, this caused such a stir among the listeners, the king was forced to repeat his astonishing decree, not once only, but three times. “You have heard me, heya,” he assured them, shaking his fists in the air. “Your tribute will be forgiven.”

  Harald allowed a moment for this news to make its way to the rearward ranks and to be passed to those standing beyond the stone circle. He stood erect, fists on hips, his smile broad, red hair gleaming in the sun; he fairly beamed confidence, assurance streaming like heat from a flame.

  The king went on to describe how he had set his mind on a venture which would bring wealth and riches to every free man in Daneland. He threw his arms wide and begged them to hear him out. The shouting all but overwhelmed his booming bull voice. Harald begged them to listen; he pleaded for their indulgence, and told them that he had determined to go to Miklagård, where there was silver and gold beyond measure, and where even the lowest slave was far wealthier than the richest king of Skania.

  The people were amazed at the king’s audacity: Did you hear? Miklagård! they said. The king is going to Miklagård. Think of that!

  “Now I ask you, brothers,” Harald continued, his bull voice thundering above the excitement his announcement had created, “is it right for the slaves of the south to enjoy more wealth than the kings of the north? Is it right that we, Odin’s favoured children, should break our backs in toil—ploughing, reaping, chopping wood, drawing water—while brown slaves sit idle in the shade of fruiting trees?”

  He let the question hang in the air to do its work.

  “No!” cried a voice. It sounded very like Hrothgar to me. “It is not right!” shouted another. And everyone seemed to agree that this state of affairs could not be allowed to continue.

  Harald waved his hands for order. He continued, speaking reasonably, and somewhat reluctantly, as if merely acquiescing to the prevailing view—a view which he had no great wish to further himself. He spoke of how he had vowed in his heart to ease the burdens of his people. He said he would go to Miklagård, if that is what they wanted, and he would bring back the wealth of the southern slaves. He would bring back this wealth and use it to better the lives of the Danefolk. He would bring back such wealth that they would not have to pay tribute due him. He would bring back wealth to make even the greediest among them satisfied. He would do all this and more, if that is what they wanted.

  He thrust his hand towards the river where his huge new ship lay at anchor. That ship, that very ship, he declared, was the swiftest of any ever built in Skania. He would go with this selfsame ship and he would lead the war host to the city of gold. And he, Harald Bull-Roar, would fill that great fast ship with such treasures as would make all other kings sick with jealousy when they saw what wealth his jarls and freemen would enjoy.

  The people could not take such amazing good fortune quietly. They hugged themselves and one another, and cried out and leapt with joy at the prospect of so much wealth within such easy reach. They acclaimed their king and his wisdom and foresight. Here was a king, truly, who knew what was best for his people.

  “For this reason,” Harald said when the outcry had spent itself once more, “I will forgive the yearly tribute, which is due me as your lord!”

  Again, the king was overwhelmed by a seatide of acclamation, and was forced to wait until it had abated before wading on.

  “I will forgive the yearly tribute,” he repeated, speaking slowly. “Not for one year only will I forgive the tribute. Not for two years! Not for three years—or even four!” he cried. “But for five years will I forgive the tribute to any man who will arm himself and follow me to Miklagård.”

  Oh, he was a shrewd lord. I do not think that anyone even noticed the subtle trap he had laid for them in his words. All they heard was that the king was forgiving the tribute for five years. They did not yet perceive that in order to receive the benefit of the forgiven tribute, they all had to follow him to Miklagård and help him fill his treasure chests with raid and plunder.

  Harald called them kinsmen, he called them brothers. He bade them to fly to the south where wealth beyond measure awaited them. He made it sound as if they had but to take shovels and scoop it off the ground. He flung wide his arms once more. “Who is with me?” the king cried, and they all shouted their approval, surging forward, fighting among themselves to be the first to pledge support for the inspired plan.

  Having won his way, Harald quickly declared the council ended, lest, I believe, any dissenting voices should be raised to spoil his impressive victory. Yet, who would have dissented? Even Rägnar left the council ring with his scowl of protest softened into a thoughtful, if not benevolent, smile.

  The king then declared that the day should be given to feasting and drinking. To this end, he caused three great ale vats to be placed in the centre of the camp with orders that every vat should be continually replenished from his shipboard store throughout the remaining days and nights of the gathering. He then offered three oxen and six pigs to be roasted for the feeding of his people.

  The celebration following Harald’s bold decision complimented the king’s exuberance full well. That night the daring Jarl’s name and far-thinking, even visionary, abilities were lauded in cup by one and all. Around each fire-ring, men, their faces glistening with grease from the rib bones in their hands, licked their lips and proclaimed Harald Bull-Roar the finest king who ever trod the earth on two legs. They hailed him a true and noble lord; a kindly ruler whose only thought was ever for the benefit and uplifting of his people; a man among men, wise beyond his years and beyond his time; a brave and courageous, yet essentially sympathetic, sovereign who could dream and dare great things on behalf of his people.

  They had, of course, the king’s skald, Skirnir to help them remember these flattering sentiments. The skald roved the meadow, hopping from camp to camp to sing songs in praise of his patron, finding willing, if somewhat bleary-eyed, listeners for his spirited performances.

  When the day was done and the last reveller collapsed onto his fire side pallet, it was agreed that this year’s theng was the best since Olaf Broken-Nose killed an ox with his bare hands.

  And that night, as the deep summer stillness lay heavy upon the sleeping celebrants, I dreamed again.

  21

  A tawny owl swept low over the meadow on silent wings, eyes wide in surprise at finding so many humans strewn over its hunting ground. With a muted shriek of irritation, the bird flew off along the river.

  The wind rose, gusting gently, rippling the meadow grass and making a strange, fluttering hiss. I heard the sound and stood up from my mat of rushes and looked around. Gone were the tents and fire-rings; gone were the people sleeping on the ground; gone was the theng-stone and gathering place. Even as I watched, the meadow ch
anged and became a sea: the slow-waving meadowgrass became billowing waves and the pale flowers flecks of foam scattered over a rising swell.

  I wondered how it was that I should stand upon the waters, but the ground I stood upon had become the curving deck of a ship. The ship itself could not be seen in the gloom, but I heard the wind-snap of the sails, and the slash of its sharp prow through the waves.

  The sky above was dim; there was neither sun, nor moon, and the few stars were strangely configured. The ship carried us swiftly over dark, unknown waters, the rest of the seafarers and I—for though I could not see them, I could hear the others working nearby, talking low in muttered whispers to one another. I stood at the rail, gazing out into the misty distance toward an unseen horizon.

  I do not know how long we sailed; a year, a day, an age of years…I cannot say. The wind did not fail, nor the ship alter its course. But the waters gradually changed from the cold grey of northern storms to a deep brilliant blue. I searched the far flat horizon for any sign of land—a rock, an island, the clouded hump of a hill or mountain—and I searched in vain. All was sea and sky and queer stars in alien skies. Still the ship ran boldly before the wind, swift-gliding as a winged gull.

  Gradually, the sky began to change; it softened and grew pale, then blushed with pearly light the colour of rose petals. The hue deepened and became seamed with gold which swirled and brightened, fusing into the arc of a great, shining disk of blazing light, still half-hidden below the sea line. It was then I knew I faced the east, and we flew towards the rising sun.

  On and on we sailed. The sun rose higher, its rays piercing the eastern sky with swordblades of shimmering light—so bright I had to close my eyes and turn my face away. When I looked again, it was not the sun I saw, but a vast golden dome: the enormous rising sphere of a palatial roof, supported on pillars of white marble the size and girth of the tallest trees. I marvelled that a palace so huge should float on the fickle sea. But as we drew swiftly nearer, I saw that this eastern extravagance rested on a spit of land; the contours of the palace’s walls and many-chambered halls hugged the steep hump-backed hill. This hill rose from the sea to divide three vast waterways, and three great peoples.