TELL ME ABOUT YOUR MOTHER.”
They had lain together most nights since they’d met, their bodies close as the leaves danced to the ground and twirled into a river swelled with rains. The cliffs of the Nipr valley had an abundance of caves, some used as shelters or storage by travellers, some haunted by the spirits of the land. The girl had found some great labyrinthine tunnels, dug by some long-dead hermit, and made it her home. She spoke sparingly, reluctantly almost, as if unused to conversing. She gave her name as Ellisif and clearly had some Vindr blood in her veins, but didn’t go to any great lengths to explain herself. She was escape personified, and he had fallen for her right away. Botulfr imagined they were both outcasts, a pariah prince and a forest-dweller, finding solace as the strangest of bedfellows.
“I can’t see her anymore. Her face I mean. I remember places where she was and have memories that she inhabits, but the details change every time I recall them; the words she said or didn’t say, a smile I wish she’d smiled. I try to picture her, and she distorts like ripples across a reflection in a deep pond.”
The branches outside rustled in answer, whispering of sorrows and secrets. Despite the wind, they were warm and content. Ellisif unclasped her hands from his and closed his eyes with her fingers as she explored his features.
“You are your mother’s child? These hands, these eyes?”
“As dark as a gathering storm, my father would say. Proudly, I think. He said he could see the lightning flash in her eyes. She described me the same way sometimes. She’d tell me of her lands, where they worshipped the eternal blue sky and a goose god who made plants grow and lightning flash. Beyond the Grikk lands somewhere, far to the east. My father brought her back from a raid along the Olkoga, no doubt intended for a bed-slave. He had a wife already, although she died in childbirth. She was darker than I am, not like the blámenn, but they called her Queen Hel all the same. Partly because of her skin, as I said, but they also thought she was close to the grave and could conjure draugr. She had other children—Gudmudr died a babe in arms; Oysteinn was a mare, a rassragr, who took his own life. They said my mother’s magic was to blame for his perversion. They said the same thing about me.”
Over the past weeks, the young, bewildered boy had kept strong by submerging his thoughts beneath the surging rivers of the Rus, beneath Askr’s flood of damp parchments and blotted letters. But now the prince began to unfurl his thoughts, trying to marshal them on the field, to show the strength of his command.
“In fact, she was a beautiful, beautiful woman who throbbed with sadness and sorrow from a lifetime of loss. My father was cruel to marry her, foolish to think he could fix her when he was the reason she mourned. Perhaps he really believes he is the Thunderer and that he can command the storms.”
Ellisif’s eyes were deep, dark wells. “And they killed her?”
“I don’t know. I can see her death, smothered with furs, or slashed with knives, or drowned beneath the ice. Every time it is different. She was happier when I saw her last. She always felt freer when my father was campaigning or orchestrating his next hunt. I can’t even be sure of that, that she was happy then. I hope she was, for a moment at least. Askr and Olaf tell me my brother and uncles were conspiring. They blame spies in the pay of the Grikkir.”
“Shameful enough to touch a woman in anger—”
“What penalty is there for the death of an empress? My father has banished people for tilting a hat, but for his own wife? He didn’t even call out his guard. He rode off to hunt bear. As if nothing had happened.”
“To hide his grief perhaps?”
“What shame is there in grief? All creation wept for the death of Baldur. The Fylkir of the Himinríki has been unmanned and his son swept out to sea.”
“You’ll return on the tide?” Her lips murmured around his neck, trailing questions, hastening the young man’s plans.
He was a prince now, strapping on his armour, desperate both to impress and to hide the fact he was unaccustomed to the weight.
“Olaf is fond of saying, ‘two heads cut off and thrown high into the tree have only the winds with which to scheme.’ But not yet. We’re not ready yet.”
They clung together in silence a while, her midnight tresses shuttering his vision, her gaze engulfing him. She was heat and sweat, filled with purpose and pleasure, ardent yet absent somehow. She seemed, in that moment, to be no more real than the memory of his mother, a tangle of half-thoughts. He wondered if he was even in the cave, by the river, in the lands of the Rus. And then her distant wandering ceased, and she returned, a waif in his arms.
He felt smaller still now, inconsequential, but forced a return to speech to cover his shame.
“My men spoke to me of Miklagard, the city of the world’s desire, and home of my enemy. We’ll travel there, hiding in plain sight as they say. I want to see where the Kristin god lives.”
“The Kristin god no more lives in Miklagard than Thorr lives in the oaks or the fields.”
“I don’t mean literally. You’ve been there?”
“I have travelled to many places. But yes, I have seen the brazen domes of their churches, heard the mournful tolling of bells, witnessed the ponderous parades of icons around their endless walls. I followed the Kristins there. I was not tempted.”
“So why does it call to men, both in victory and in defeat? Why don’t the Kristins yield or succumb? Perhaps the City itself is their god. Perhaps their god is desire or fear, or both, a greed for glory, wealth or the life eternal. Perhaps that is why the Great City is sieged by Serkir, Bolgarar, Khazar and Húnar. I want to see their talismans, their relics, I want to understand how man may build a replica of Heaven.”
He surprised himself with the spontaneity, but he spoke earnestly, the words bubbling up from some deep wellspring within him.
“Why?” Ellisif laughed. She was amused now, propped up on one arm, waif become wolf.
“Not for the wealth. Olaf wants his riches and plunder, and he shall have them. We will go to the Grikk lands, and there, I shall nest, just below the surface, burrowing into their vaults, gnawing at their fears. As they have infiltrated my inheritance, I will infest their kingdom and make it my domain.”
“I am impressed, Son of Óðinn. Like the Allfather, you have tamed your fury; like the Wolf Foe, you have ridden far and wide; like the Blind God, you seek out knowledge. All of Midgard is your birthright,” she said. “It is time to claim it.”
Botulfr was elated, enthralled by his own cunning and her ferocious praise. She was slavering over him again, aroused and hungry. It suddenly occurred to him that this slip of a girl had the sight. He’d been blind all right, bound by his own one-eyed god. She could see not just his swarthy skin, his foolish hide, but his very breath, his petty spirit, his lustful mind, his fabrications of fortune.
Fjölkyngi. Magic. This woman snared spirits, haltered fates, and bound them to her will. He opened his mouth and then thought better of it.
“Oh, don’t worry, my Prince,” she said, as if reading his mind. “You and I have only just begun.”
“NOT THAT BIKKJUNA!”
Harald slammed his helmet repeatedly against the side of the hut door, as if trying to knock some sense into the world. Gest tried to stay his arm, but the oak had already started to splinter, and the helmet would need a hammer taken to it before anyone could wear it. He was red-faced, and roaring incoherently, his beard flecked with spittle. Most Norse swearing involved animals, copulating with animals, or being sired by animals. Botulfr had begun to realise he had been mollycoddled—he knew most of his kin had foul mouths, and even made sport out of insults, but no one had ever sworn directly at the fylkir’s son. As Harald continued to rave, the prince caught a phrase “child born of a long-dead sow,” and he bridled, the memory of his mother still raw even after all these weeks. He glanced towards his sword.
“If you cannot bite, never show your teeth, little man,” Harald glowered, evidently not so mad that he couldn’t spot the slight shift in the prince’s stance.
Gest spun the dented helmet around to examine it more carefully. He laughed mirthlessly.
“Harald has a point. Ellisif, is that her name? Well, she is a fine-looking woman, but everyone knows you should never, and I mean never, sleep in the arms of a sorceress, lest she lock up your limbs—or worse.” Gest trailed off, leaving the unmentionable to their imaginations.
Harald made sure they didn’t miss anything. “Why does she need your pathetic cock when she has her own staff to ride? And a dozen spirits fucking her morning, noon, and night? Jarl Hakon slept with a völva and became so itchy he had two of his hird put a rope up his arse and play toga hönk.”
Askr started to object, but Harald stared him down. Botulfr had all his answers ready.
“First, I have no money. We have no money. I can’t pay the bride-price or afford a morning gift.”
His men groaned loudly in unison.
“It is marriage now?! Bad enough to couple with the she-wolf, but a wedding is out of the question.”
“She has ensorcelled him already.”
“Careful now. A ‘no’ does not hide anything, but a ‘yes’ very easily becomes a deception.”
Botulfr raised his voice and persevered. “Second, she speaks Grikk and has travelled to Miklagard, and further still.”
“Oh, well that changes everything. I often thought of marrying the first person I met who spoke in a funny way. It’s a wonder you haven’t bedded Olaf.”
“Never trust the words of a woman. Their hearts were shaped on a spinning wheel; falsehood is fixed in their breasts.”
“I think he is fixing on her breasts.”
“Third, I am to be fylkir and King of the Storm Halls. I am a son of Óðinn. Do you not think I can see that my marriage is fated? And she dreamt of me on Midsummer’s Eve with seven flowers under her pillow. She has the sight.”
Askr sighed. “My Prince, this long summer I have seen you grow brains and brawn although, sadly, not beard. You were nearly a man when we invited you to join us.” He said this with no trace of irony. “You will make a fine fylkir for our people one day—if you are elected. But stripping out of your breeches and taking oaths with a Vindr and a seer is—”
“Is no different from Óðinn, Lord of the Aesir, bedding any number of mistresses,” said Botulfr. “Your objections are noted.”
It wasn’t a question of confidence, but he delivered the much-rehearsed line with too much petulance and felt instantly childish. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself reduced to trembling and tears again. Defeated, he turned to skulk back to the cave. He was surprised to hear Olaf interject:
“Lucky for you, young Prince, I know just where to get mead enough for your bridal ale.”
THE ARGUING CONTINUED ALL THE way to Frigga’s Day, but the ceremony went ahead, after a fashion.
When Norse nobility married, the watchwords were invariably opulence and abundance. Arrangements took months of negotiation at the Althing, with nobles vying for consideration with gifts of clothing, jewelry, livestock, and slaves. It was said King Ake gifted his future wife the entire land of Danmǫrk, although it soon returned to him in the civil war that followed. For the wedding itself, ancient custom demanded that the bride and groom symbolically purify themselves in the steam of the town bathhouse, required that they exchange oath-rings and ancestral swords to protect their sacred vows, and mandated the sacrifice of a living animal to the gods for health and long life.
They came as close as they could. Botulfr and Ellisif were married in a cave after a plunge into an icy river, and they shared borrowed swords and rings of twine. The sacrificial goat escaped and fled into the hills before Askr could catch it again. At least the bridal crown was proper, woven from straw and wheat and garlanded with flowers. Botulfr was in awe that his wife glowed like spring, even as the land around was brown and fading. If he had been impetuous, her beauty was the reason why.
Olaf gladdened everyone’s spirits throughout, hurling enough insults at Harald to distract him from all the ill omens. The Austman had procured enough mead for the whole month of the honey moon. Ellisif recited an old verse as the prince drank first, and then he passed the bowl to her and did the same. Then the toasting began, to Óðinn, to Freyja, to kinship. Olaf offered up a toast to “Praise day at dusk, a wife when dead, a weapon when tried, a maid when married, ice when ’tis crossed, and ale when ’tis drunk.” Round and round they went, telling stories as old as time.
They were put to bed late, and when the witnesses left, splashing back to the fishing hut in the dead of night, the marriage was complete.
In the morning, she spoke of her dreams. The Norse paid great attention to the dreams of a wedding night; the dreams of a married völva were said to deliver unrivalled prophecy. Ellisif recalled clearly: in her vision, she took a golden brooch from her cloak and hurled it out in front of her. Roots immediately writhed out and took hold in the ground. Branches then shot out from the brooch, and a tree emerged, a tree that grew so tall that she was unable to see over it. The tree’s bole was blood-red, its upper trunk green, and its branches snowy white. The branches spread out to cover all of Midgard and then on through the heavens. She saw then three witnesses, each nurturing the tree. The first lay face down in the blood-red roots, the second had climbed high up into the leafy green boughs, and the third had vaulted further still, beyond the rime and frost, touching the stars.
Botulfr was fascinated and quickly shrugged off the blankets to look directly at his new wife and delve deeper. His questions were urgent and insistent.
“What does it mean? Are the witnesses maids or men? We had four witnesses at our wedding. The three Nornir perhaps? The fylkirs consult with them. I am to be crowned, that must be it!”
Ellisif was sleepy still and rolled away, leaving him with the smooth ivory curve of her shoulder. “My Prince, I am certain you will be crowned. Just as I am certain we are to have a long and happy life.”
“Because you have the sight? You have seen my destiny?”
She glanced back, her eyes both terrible and tender. “What do you know of the Nornir?”
“I know their names: Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld. Three wise giant-maids, huge and mighty, that shape the fates of men and tend the roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil.”
“The Nornir only reveal their fateful secrets as a life comes to its end. Not even a fylkir may peer into the future.”
“But you can see the future? You just dreamed of it!”
“In my mind’s eye, the Nornir are a knot, that which has happened, that which is about to be, and that which ought to be. To tease the threads apart is folly. A Jötunn may appear to be a giant, but that is not their only shape. Do not dress the spirits in the garb of angels, or the Kristins will have devoured us all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then let us speak of it another time. Now it is time to enjoy the present.” Ellisif clearly had other passions on her mind, but Botulfr gently rebuffed her.
“Call it your wedding gift to me. Ellisif, please.”
“You have a lifetime of gifts ahead.”
“What do the Álfar say? What do they look like?”
Ellisif propped herself up on her elbow and clasped her hand over her eyes in exasperation.
“Only the Dökkálfar are awake, and they are as black as pitch.”
She thought for a while, before speaking again.
“Do you know why a rooster will crow before afternoon rain, or a cat will hiss before an earthquake? Or why dogs will bark when there is no intruder to be seen? It is because they see where men cannot. The gods are always in the skies, the Dvergr are always beneath our feet, and the Álfar are always in the trees. Most folk just don’t know how to reach them, and we have all forgotten how to follow them to their homes. But they are all around us, all the time. Now, answer me this: What does a great king look like?”
Botulfr grinned and tried to kiss her. “Broad shoulders, muscular arms, a mighty chest, and a fiery eloquence on his lips.”
Ellisif laughed at this, but quickly grew serious again. “A king can be grey-haired and feeble, with the shaggy beard of a priest, and still command armies. True splendour comes from the will to power, the struggle to survive. There will always be forces you cannot control. A true king doesn’t fear change, he creates order from chaos. The greatest king of all, Óðinn, bent all things to his will and made the world. Now, answer me this: Why do men follow you? It is important to know because many of them will die doing it.”
Botulfr realised he didn’t have a good answer, and Ellisif didn’t wait for one.
“It isn’t because you know where you are going, for you are as blind as they are. It isn’t because they can see the doors ahead of you, for you cannot perceive them. It is because they think you can give them something they want. The maids who determine the waxing and waning of men’s lives, we call Nornir, but there are many lesser seers. We come to each child that is born to bless the life ahead. Or to curse it. But only a king has the power to lift a man up from the fields and make him a jarl, or to cast him as a thrall. That is why the fylkir are said to consult with the fates. Now, another question: What do your men want of you?”
“Riches, lands, eternal glory. What all men want.” He recognised he was only half-joking.
“And what about your woman? Why do I follow you?”
Botulfr sensed a trap and withdrew slightly, mumbling vague thoughts.
“My Prince, the sight doesn’t allow me to know the future with certainty. Portents are signs that one must choose to follow or ignore. But I will answer your question, about my vision, if you will give me a morning gift of my choosing.”
Botulfr was excited to be back on comfortable territory. All the questions had made him recognise he didn’t have many answers. Ellisif, on the other hand, seemed more worldly and regal than he could ever hope to be. She was as severe as she was beautiful, and he couldn’t have resisted her if he’d wanted. He nodded, quickly, and she coiled on top of him, caressing his broad shoulders and muscular arms.
“The tree is your reign, your realm, and your dynasty. It will grow strong if you nurture it. If we nourish it. I will be all-wise Mímir to your Óðinn. As he hung for nine nights on the windy tree, so shall we. Menglöð has nine maidens to serve her and Ægir had nine daughters, so shall we, for all of the nine worlds we will rule. You and I will glide down from the heavens to deliver the judgement of Kings and Urðr. Together. Grant me this gift, and each of those who follow you will have their wish. All save one, who seeks to shake the tree to its roots.”
She clambered over him, kissing him softly. Botulfr decided he was perfectly content to be shaken to his roots.
THEY STOLE THE HORSES AND sledges. Olaf and Gest left one day at dawn and returned before the fire was alight that evening. The horses had grown thick coats for the winter and would keep a brisk trot along the ice, pulling the two sledges in turns. They were not like the compact, bristle-maned farm horses Botulfr knew; these were long, sloping beasts, tall and powerful with a silvery sheen that caught the fading light. Olaf said they were Tork horses that could run for days, stolen from a Kangar raiding party he’d overwhelmed.
Botulfr was duly impressed—until Gest mentioned that the overwhelming had been accomplished by copious skins of ale, dosed with henbane for good measure. What’s more, the whole scheme had been devised by Ellisif, who knew the paths the Kangar took through the forest. The prince was mildly annoyed not to have been consulted but realised he had little to add. His wife had quickly shown her worth, and even Harald had stopped grumbling. Besides, Botulfr was given cold jobs now, away from the fire and tents, work worthy of a man and not a boy, which made him feel like he had earned his place too.
The next part of the plan required Gest and Olaf to range ahead of the party, Kangar standards hung on their spears. On clear days, at a distance, the horse and colours were a fine disguise; for the rest, the foul weather kept them concealed. Warbands were scarce and any encampments easily skirted.
Their luck held for the first week, but on the eighth day, Ellisif gave warning that the Nornir demanded blood for safe passage. She led them to shelter by a river bluff, escaping the biting wind. No sooner had they set camp than ten horsemen cantered out of the gale, seeking to share the same spot with fellow tribesmen.
The hirdsmenn kept their backs to the Kangar, ignoring their greetings, while pretending to feed the horses or the fire. Only when the hetman grew angry did they spring up, all sinew and spittle.
Harald ran at the riders with a raised axe, tall enough to strike a mounted man. The first he split at the waist; he then spun around the horse’s bridle and jabbed the horn of his axe into a second throat. Askr fought with both hands. He raised one sword with his left hand and struck with the right, lunging at the hetman, taking off one of his legs below the knee. Olaf hurled a spear, and his foe fell backwards, the shaft pinning him in the snowdrift at the foot of the bluff. Gest grasped a rider with one hand on his belt and threw him onto the frozen ground a short distance off, where Ellisif sliced through his skull without a word. The horses screamed in reproach, and the remaining Kangar scattered.
Botulfr hadn’t moved a muscle. There simply hadn’t been time. Olaf retrieved his spear with a grunt and came back to the fire.
“You’ve heard it said, ‘From his weapons on the open road, no man should step one pace away.’ Now you understand it.” He stared at the prince from under his hood.
“They died quietly. Without even a curse on their lips. Seiðmaðr, the lot of them.” Sorcerers. Unmanly. Gest sat down heavily.
“That one is still gurgling,” called Harald, steadying the horses, his voiced raised against the wind.
“I’d personally hope for some memorable last words when I die,” said Gest. “Something that can be recorded for posterity.”
“Prick!” bellowed the giant. “Write that down.”
“Good idea. I might just do that.” Gest got up again and began to search the bodies.
Ellisif crept up to her husband and rested her head on his shoulder, her back against the rock. She began to sing softly, tapping her head against the stone to match the rhythm. It looked ungainly, fitful even, and Botulfr shifted so to look at her face.
Olaf answered his unspoken question.
“The Vardlokkur. The warlock song. She sings to protect us from the spirits of these tribes. A Serklander once told me ‘When the Norse sing, the growling sound they make reminds me of dogs howling, only the dog is more in tune’. We should be thankful there is some beauty left in the North.”
When the wind died, they all climbed to the top of the bluff. Gest thrust a spear deep into the ground and then hefted a horse’s head onto the shaft, drained of blood and half-frozen. The hirdsman raised his voice and called to the gods.
“Here is set this níðstang, this cursing pole, and my curse on the Kurgan of these lands. This curse I turn also on the guardian-spirits who dwell here, that they may all wander astray, never to find their home till they have driven the Kangar from this land.”
Askr cut runes into the shaft to mirror the words, and they turned the head to face the east, completing the ancient ritual.
“Well, I for one am terrified,” mocked Harald as they hitched the sledges and continued the journey. Ellisif slept soundly, hearing no more whispers from the fates.
AT THE MOUTH OF THE Nipr, they traded their horses for passage by sea—the Hospitable Sea, the Grikkir called it—the crossroads of commerce for a hundred peoples. The days were cool but sunny, and the freezing rain became a thankfully forgotten memory.
They first spied the Great City on the horizon, distant domes dotted with painted sails of foreign fleets. The company stood near the bow of their ship as she swung across the waves. Towers, palaces and churches grew from salt-soaked blurs and became a city aglow with marble and porphyry, beaten gold and brilliant mosaics. On the landward side, the city was defended by the impregnable walls of Theodosius, twenty yards tall, ramparts that vaulted the heavens, protected by the Virgin Mary herself, as well as the dauntless defenders of the Grikk Empire. The ports teemed with galleys, cogs, and ships of all sizes, including many Norse vessels with shield-hung gunwales, most Northmen being more accustomed to trading than piracy.
Upon docking, they were poured onto streets awash with activity. A sluice of colonnaded streets, gilded arches, and cypress-strewn gardens spread before them. Liturgies rose and fell in waves as they marched past a procession of churches, through a surge of people pooled in market squares and outside exquisite baths. Bronzesmiths mixed with furriers and horse traders along the Meze, fermented fish and fresh baked bread and horseshit caking the air. Towering above it all, treasures both ancient and modern caught the sun’s rays and held them like vows.
It was indeed the City of the World’s Desire. It all seemed to rest not on solid masonry, but on a tide of cantors and clerics, as if suspended from heaven; on the head of John the Baptist, the Crown of Thorns, nails from the True Cross. At its heart, the Church of Holy Wisdom, Hagia Sophia, beamed with a magnificent golden halo that humbled all who gazed at it.
“Kunta, fukja, drit.” Harald was awestruck. They all were.
Botulfr drifted through the streets, swirling in thoughts. His father’s empire was turf and iron, linen sails and wooden beams. The Grikk throne was one of much greater majesty, like marble powdered with stars. He hadn’t appreciated that until now, hadn’t seen that the true edifice of empire was tangible. Empires were full of buildings cemented by greed, and they drew on a history written in blood.
“Askr,” said Botulfr above the tumult of the crowd. “The death of the gods, Ragnarok. Surtr and his fiery sword. Tell me the story.”
The skald was walking slowly behind, eyes wide at the spectacle. He glanced at the prince.
“Amid this turmoil, the sky will open, and from it will ride the sons of Muspell. Surtr will ride in front, and both before and behind him there will be burning fire. His sword will be very fine. Light will shine from it more brightly than from the sun.” The words were mechanical, delivered by rote.
“Then there is your Surtr, your devourer of worlds.” The prince pointed to the golden dome of Hagia Sophia, then widened his gesture to the whole of Miklagard. “You were right, my friend, this place and its god are our doom. I see it clearly.”
Botulfr could almost feel the hand of destiny. If he didn’t strike at the belly of the beast, his world would be swallowed, and its pages overwritten by the Kristin priests. History was written by the victors, and so his people would be penned as ravagers and despoilers, malicious wolves set on destruction. The Valkyrja and the Nornir would be recast as winged angels, and Óðinn thrown down as a son of Shaitan. His world would be eclipsed as surely as the Garm-hound would swallow the sun.
He could hear his saga in his head and was growing smitten with each chapter. There was a different future. This city would one day be his city. His eyes met those of his wife, and he wondered if she could see his thoughts. She might have nodded, or it could have been the bobbing crowds.
The rest of the hird was apprehensive. Gest blanched.
“They have an unearthly fire too, these Grikkir, given to Constantine by their angels. Great flames, smoke, and thunder spill from their ships and burn even on water.”
“The dragon Nídhöggr, who feasts on corpses on the Shores of the Dead,” said Askr. “Another portent of the end.”
Harald snorted derisively. “I thought you were trying to encourage us to fight?”
“Óðinn gifted me the Mead of Poetry to spare you the mundane.”
Olaf laughed at that and clasped him on the shoulder, grinning. He was the only one who seemed to be having any fun. Botulfr reached out to Ellisif, drawing her to him through the throng. The völva wore a simple woolen tunic, her hair bunched under a sheepskin cap, so as to seem to be a boy amongst Norse traders. It was a disorienting guise, especially when she spoke in her soft, sparing way.
“Did you see this in your dream? Is the Great Temple the golden brooch? Or is it our doom?”
“This doom or the next. There is seldom a single wave.” She shrugged and reached for her wedding ring, unthreading the twine from her finger. “A ring has no beginning, no middle and no end. They are a series of threads that can be coiled… or cut.” She snapped the twine taut to demonstrate.
“Draumskrok. Nonsense. If it was a proper ring, it would be made of gold,” muttered Harald, towering about the seer and half-hoping his voice would be lost in the crowds.
“Everything has threads,” she said. “Even if they are invisible to your eye. Even gold. And every disturbance is a ring. Drop a pebble into a river and make a ripple. What is a ripple but a ring of water? What is a wave but a larger ripple?”
“Then we had best introduce ourselves at the palace,” said the prince and strode purposefully into the street.
THE IMPERIAL CORTEGE ADVANCED IN steps, pacing towards the throne with infinite patience, the halls echoing with hymns of thanks and praise. At the centre of the procession sat Gregoras Chrysaphes, in Christ, Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans.
He was flanked by men-at-arms, soldiers covered head to toe in mail so brightly polished that it was difficult to see the man they were guarding. The emperor was further obscured by the scarlet flags of his standard bearers and silver rods of the heralds, who in turn were surrounded by the pious crowds gathered in the Great Chamber. Hallelujah, intoned the cantors, time after time, a chorus echoing the soloist. The beauty of their voices was astonishing.
“Bikkju-sonr,” Botulfr cursed.
This didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. They had been carefully positioned by the door so as not to distract from the spectacle within. Five hulking Northerners and a slave-boy didn’t go unnoticed. Botulfr had tried to explain himself to the palace guard, but his halting Grikk had just resulted in the hasty summoning of the magistros. Askr had gracefully intervened and ensured that they gained entry to the auditorium—although the guards held onto their weapons.
“What did you say to them?” whispered the prince.
“I told the master that we were expected by the Bureau of Barbarians.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am being serious. The bureau handles protocol and supervision of visitors. You wanted to be introduced. If you join the dance circle, you must dance. The bureau has spies everywhere. If they weren’t aware of our arrival, I’d be surprised.”
“Spies? Who knew we’d arrived?” Botulfr scowled at Olaf, who had originated the whole expedition, but he just shrugged.
Askr came to his defense. “In fairness, I only learned of it from the master and improvised from there. He’ll have scuttled off to find the logothete, a functionary who will have the ear of the basileus.”
“The basileus?”
“The emperor. The Grikkir call themselves the Rhomaoi, even though Constantine had moved the capital from Rome centuries ago, the official language changed from Latin to Grikk sometime after that, after the West had fallen to the Frakkar. With a stroke of a quill, the Imperium Romanum became the Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn.”
“With a stroke of his prick. I could end that old peacock before they could stop me.” Harald cracked his knuckles, while the rest of the hird tried hard to keep their composure. Ellisif looked pained and murmured to quiet them.
Botulfr turned back to the hall and tried to relax. He felt oddly suffused in the chant. The cortege continued to step forward across mosaic floors strewn with laurel and ivy, the short journey designed to be as majestic and unhurried as the man on the throne. The intonations ringing all around were arranged for the same reason, a divine endorsement of his rule. The whole chamber was gazing at the emperor in rapt silence: senators, magistrates, monks, soldiers of the city watch, imperial secretaries and notaries.
All except one.
Harald had spotted him first and given the prince a hefty nudge to attract his attention. On the far side of the chamber, nestled in between soaring columns, embroidered curtains, and gleaming silver plates was a tall figure who stood apart from the dignitaries and patricians. Most of the men wore short red woolen capes, pinned at the shoulder, but this man wore a long, loose-fitting robe adorned with green eagles, like a Tork kaftan. Even at this distance, there was hint of something menacing about his eyes. They were as piercing as a hawk’s, even under the heavy hoods of his eyelids. The man disappeared for a while, lost in the crowd, then appeared again behind them, close to the huge golden organ that the Grikkir used to serenade the heavens.
The man beckoned them over, away from the procession to a nearby vestibule. He spoke in almost-perfect Norse, in a deep baritone voice.
“Allow me to introduce myself: Gilpractus, Logothete of the Course. We are glad you have come to pay your devotions to the emperor, it is quite delightful if unexpected. However, you must be dressed suitably for the occasion.”
Some servants milled around, offering garnet tunics, with roses embroidered across the shoulders and cuffs. The Grikk official watched as they changed, his eyes a calm sea of deepest blue. Gilpractus was so assured and graceful it was impossible to argue, even though Harald clearly wanted to. Once they were in suitable attire, the logothete bowed deep and low in formal greeting, as if seeing them for the first time.
“How is the most magnificent and most noble and distinguished Archon of Thule? How is your father, the fylkir, and his council of jarls? I am sorry the chartulary was unable to receive you in the harbour. Did anything unfortunate or distressing occur on your journey? Leave cheerfully and delighting in the fact that today you dine with our holy emperor.”
At first, Botulfr tried to gather a suitable reply, but as the words tumbled towards him regardless, he realised he wasn’t required to answer any of the questions and that his host was effortlessly reciting a formula. Protocols had been adhered to, even if they threatened to disrupt the orderly and elegiac proceedings behind them. Having drifted through the address, Gilpractus allowed himself a sigh of what must have been relief.
“Now, please join us and implore the mediation of Our Immaculate Mistress, the Mother of God, both for the cause of God and the life of the emperor.”
The hird were steered forward, and for the rest of the interminable ceremony, Gilpractus stood immediately behind them. Botulfr had to keep his head fixed forward for fear of revealing his crushing boredom. The Grikk capacity for tedium was staggering.
Eventually the emperor stepped to the dais, although he still paused for one last prayer. Botulfr found it hard to imagine that this solemn and ponderous ritual occurred before every imperial audience, but it was an impressive display of the empire’s supreme power, a reminder that Gregoras was the inheritor of the ineffable glory of God, that he was the viceroy of the Saviour. That he owned the gilded cage.
“O Mother of the God of Love, have mercy and compassion upon me, a sinner and a prodigal. Accept this prayer which is offered to thee from my impure lips; and thou, being gracious and compassionate and tender-hearted, be thou ever present with me in this life as my defender and helper so that I may turn aside the assault of my enemies and guide me into salvation.”
The prayer complete, the crowd were then led in cheers and proclamations, which provided enough noise to allow Askr to provide some translation into the prince’s ear.
“You who have been chosen by divine election, to the concord and exaltation of the world; you who have been married into the purple by God and so on and on. It is all just hot air.”
“Who or what is the Archon of Thule? I have this terrible feeling they have mistaken me for someone else.”
Askr laughed. “It’s just what they call us. They can’t address you as the Prince of the Storm Hall without implicitly acknowledging our gods, so they stick with ancient forms of address. Allows them to keep the heavens in order. A place for all things, and all things in their place.”
Botulfr looked towards his wife, who returned his gaze steadily. Her disguise had all but disappeared with the change of dress, but she didn’t look concerned. The silence that followed the hymns seemed as unearthly as the chants themselves. He turned back to the stillness of the great hall and looked around. The whole charade was preposterous, but still, with so many complicit courtiers, it made Uppsala seem an empty shell.
The emperor sat, and his priests placed the imperial diadem on his head; a crenelated crown, profusely adorned with pearls and jewels, lappets gleaming from his temples to his cheeks. The logothete ushered the hird forward and urged them to kneel. There really was no other choice. Three others approached first, showing the customary reverence, and so the Northmen tried their best to imitate them. Now cloaked in the imperial purple, Gregoras beamed a welcoming smile straight at his guests.
“Arise, Varangoi! Today is a blessed and auspicious day. I have a feeling we shall be great and fast friends. Now, which of you is Gog, and which is Magog?”
THE BANQUET WAS A LAVISH but confusing affair. Everything was made of gold: the couches and chairs, the tablecloths, even the food was served in golden bowls, so heavy they had to be hoisted onto the table by servants using ropes and pulleys attached to the ceiling. Anything that wasn’t gold was either red or purple.
The hirdsmenn had evidently shaken any discomfort they felt earlier and were gorging themselves as if it were the last food and drink they might ever see. Botulfr didn’t begrudge them; the journey had been a long one, the meals infrequent and meagre. He was used to eating with his fingers or from a knife, but Botulfr noticed all the emperor’s men used long forks and spoons. There was nothing on the tables that was unknown in the North, but foods that were rare delicacies in his father’s halls were here in abundance. There were wheels of cheese; piles of figs, walnuts, almonds, chestnuts, and pears; a fat goat stuffed with garlic, onions, and leeks; eggplant and spinach steeped in fish sauce. There were the sweet and strange smells of peppers, cinnamon, vinegar and cumin; copious sweet rice dishes made with milk and sugar; unleavened cakes soaked in honey; free-flowing wines spiced with aniseed or pine resin. They ate until they were fit to burst.
Gilpractus found them huddled in a corner. One of the host of servants bobbing at his heels politely coughed to attract their attention, while his master coolly surveyed the scene.
“Honoured Archon, the great and high emperor who sits on the golden throne will grant you an audience shortly.”
Olaf fell mockingly to one knee and offered a hand to Gest.
“What did I tell you, farmboy? Wag your tail and yelp loud enough, and they’ll raise you up! These Grikkir have mistaken you for someone who matters!”
Askr also started with theatrics, sweeping into a bow that looked quite dangerous in the ill-fitting Grikk garb. He answered for the group, replying in Grikk, explaining that they would all be honoured. The logothete immediately shook his head.
“The Emperor of the Romans will see the Archon of Thule alone. Your skald is welcome to join my secretary and peruse the library. The rest of you too, if you wish. Your good lady wife might wish to pray at the Monastery of the Peribleptos?”
Harald was not to be dismissed so lightly a second time. He towered above the crowd, splintered a glass goblet and pointed at the food. “Do you teach your goats to swim in this land? There is enough oil to drown a whale!”
The logothete smiled thinly.
“My apologies if the food is not to your liking. As your arrival was somewhat unexpected, I am told we were not able to provision appropriately. We have improvised as best as possible in the circumstances, given the necessity to… embellish. God clearly wishes to restore the dignity of your family, but, to be clear, since the Year of Calamity, we have received no formal embassies from Thule.”
“The only calamity I know is this wine,” Olaf sniggered into his cup before draining it. “He means Sikiley. We fought there against the old emperor, Antiochus.”
“Meinfretr,” cursed Harald. Stinkfart. “Why does no-one say what they mean?”
The Grikk was still a model of calm and decorum, despite the antagonism.
“Indeed, Antiochius the Bold was unable to gain the shores of the Catepanate of Italy, and the land was lost to us.”
“Unable to gain the shores?” Gest was smirking too now. “The waves were so high it was as if Ægir were pouring out his wrath upon you, showing you from the very start that the Grikkir would not be successful. Never plan an assault when Loki’s Torch is rising in the sky. Some of the ships were lost, crews and all; others were dashed on the rocks and broken to pieces. We buried your dead with due rites, and ransomed you back the survivors.”
“Thank you for the colour,” Gilpractus said, a mote of irritation creeping into his voice. “Regardless, your nation of pirates hasn’t treated with us since. Am I to assume you are sent by your father to return the territory?”
This time, Ellisif answered for the prince, addressing the hawkish Grikk directly. “You know why we are here. To put an end to your meddling. Did you imagine that because some Northern cur took your bait we could be all so easily bought? My husband is a scion of Óðinn.”
This made Gilpractus at least raise an eyebrow.
“I am at a loss for your meaning, daughter. The Emperor of the Romans does not transact with the North. Paying your jarls and generals to leave us in peace only seems to encourage more of your kind. I once hired your kin as mercenaries to help reclaim land stolen by the Saracens, and you assumed the right to move onto it in their place.”
Askr was first to respond, more heated than Botulfr had ever seen him. “If not your gold, then your god. If he does not tear down men’s homes, he ruins their minds, and then they tear them down themselves. We shall not kneel and pray.”
Botulfr looked at the red faces of his hird. Their swaggering was becoming perilously close to swaying. He had the creeping realisation that they were more drunk than godsmen after a sacrifice. They were only going to get more belligerent as the evening wore on.
One of the functionaries joined the fray. “Rest assured, there is no pig whose stink cannot be masked by the scent of holy oil.”
Only Gilpractus remained unflappable. “And to think we have only just met! I imagine it must be so cold in the North that, unless you speak quickly, your tongues become frozen. We welcome anyone to renounce their demons and to be baptised in the name of undefiled, unstained, all-chaste and Pure Lady.”
He held up his hands to wave away further comment and turned pointedly to Botulfr.
“Honoured Archon. My distinguished predecessors thought it… inappropriate to allow vital aspects of the imperial glory to be mutilated, and so they embarked on a plan of impeccable order. We have provided the senatorial body and every subject with a suitable standard of life and conduct, as a result of which they should become better regarded and behaved, as well as beloved by their emperors, respected by each other as well as admired by every nation. A wise precaution, don’t you agree? Splendid. Then, if I might suggest you accompany me—alone—and we can discuss affairs of state in a more refined manner.”
The logothete bowed and stalked away, replaced by a squall of lesser functionaries and menacing soldiers. Botulfr looked around at the hird, expecting them to look contrite, but if anything, they looked even more like wolves among the sheep.
“Well, that went well,” he said as they all collapsed in gales of laughter.
When the amusement subsided, Olaf offered some advice.
“If the emperor offers you a sword on which to swear fealty, refuse the point and ask for the hilt. Tell him that it is our custom to pledge allegiance by touching it. As soon as you clasp hold, drive the blade through him.”
The Grikk bureaucrats hadn’t a full grasp of the Norse tongue, but clearly understood the gestures the Norse had made. The guards shuffled around, nervously. Who knows what stories they told of the fury of the Norse?
“Then sever his ribs from his flimsy spine and flop the lungs onto his womanly chest. A blood eagle to match his Roman banners.” Harald walked slowly to the nearest one, grasped him by the collar and belched in his face.
“The only thing that has kept Miklagard from the same fate as Sikiley is that you have fortifications bigger than those of Asgard. I bet they cost the sun and the moon!” Olaf roared.
The scene threatened to get ugly quickly, but Gest defused the tension by drawing out his harp and starting to sing. It sounded like a caterwaul in comparison to the choir earlier. The prince hoped it was because he was drunk and not because his ears had been corrupted by the Kristin God. Ellisif took his arm.
“Go,” she said. “Discretion is the better part of valour. I will watch over the men here. Remember your mother.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, and with that, Botulfr hurried after Gilpractus.
“PEACE AND MERCY, HAPPINESS AND glory from the Aesir be with you, high and mighty Emperor of the Romans. Wealth and health and longevity from the north, peacemaking and good Emperor. May justice and great peace rise in your reign, most peaceful and generous Emperor.”
Botulfr had practiced the formal greeting prescribed by Gilpractus, who insisted on the exact words. He’d managed the Grikk as best he could in the short space of time. Diplomatic form appeared to prevail over common sense in the East. Botulfr had refused to scrape and grovel further; there was a limit to the façade he was willing to put up with these days. He wanted to look his enemy in the eyes and understand the type of man he was.
The hall was pierced by light from glorious windows; above the imperial throne was a glass image of Christ enthroned, while another over the entrance depicted the Virgin Mary; in between, the full beauty of the heavenly court, angels, priests, and martyrs was on display. Gregoras was arranged, very deliberately, at the epicentre.
The poets called him Gregoras the Brave, a fitting epithet for a man at the pinnacle of his powers. The basileus was a greying but vigorous man, neatly bearded with near-set eyes, which, as soon as they focused on Botulfr, seemed to sparkle with delight.
“Come, my boy. Let me look at you. Bronzed and strong, a veritable Achilles. Young too, barely any down on your cheeks—Patroclus then! Such harmony of limbs and features; why, not even Apelles could have sculpted something so entrancing. As a newly-shod emperor, I might have done such things but, forgive me. An old cat always hungers for tender mice. I understand you are married?”
He was as effusive as he had been during the ceremony earlier, almost the opposite of the restrained logothete, and had an impressive command of the Norse language. Botulfr barely had time to nod before the emperor gushed on.
“My congratulations. Fiery, Gilpractus tells me. Did you know when the gods gave gifts to Pandora, Hermes gave her lies, seductive words, and a dubious character? Outside a doll, inside the plague. Well, if the wife doesn’t behave, there is always the red-hot iron. That would quench the light of those stormy eyes forever! That’s why you don’t see the empress,” he added conspiratorially, “and conversely, why she doesn’t see you!”
Botulfr remained stiff and ill at ease. “High and mighty Basileus, I will speak plainly. You greeted me as the best of friends, but I fear you are mistaken. An old enemy can’t become a friend.”
Gregoras stood and pondered his ornate throne for a few moments, wistful, even remorseful. Botulfr stayed respectfully silent.
“Do you play games, young Prince?”
“Of course, as all gods do in their golden halls and meadows.”
Botulfr was proud of the self-assured answer. Gregoras walked over to a table and patted his arm affectionately as he passed. The prince felt himself swell with pride, then immediately felt guilty for it. He was here to honour his mother’s memory. If the truth could be found, he would ask for it plainly and directly.
The emperor sat and invited his guest to do the same. He clapped his hands and two liveried servants hurried over with a circular board.
“Zatrikion? The Persians call it shatranj.”
“My people call it skáktafl, but we use a square board.”
“When you sit at the crossroads of the world, you are obliged to reshape the flotsam and jetsam that wash up on your shores. Fashion it in your own image. Now, the rules are the broadly the same as your version. Shall we? A god will master it in minutes.”
Gregoras smiled good-naturedly at the prince. Botulfr studied the pieces and tried to plan his moves around the unfamiliar circle.
Gregoras motioned to the board and explained.
“With the Persian square board, you must try to force the defending king into the corner. Impossible here, there are no corners in which to cower, or to be caught. Most games end in stalemate, but I think that is closer to real war. We play games for inspiration, don’t we? To solve intractable problems. But some problems have no solution, and war is generally protracted. With Zatrikion, you may play on in a position which might give the Persians cause for resignation. In one of the endgames, however, my board favours the bold: with king and pawn against king, unless the defender can capture the pawn before it can be promoted or protected, the game is always won.”
He pushed a pawn forward and looked steadily at his guest. He lifted the hem of his cloak and held it across the table.
“This purple cloak, you see? The signifier of emperors. Did you know the dye is made from sea snails that live in the Inland Sea?”
“I did not. Not woad? That’s what my people would use.”
“Ah, the Asp of Jerusalem. If only, but not the right shade. It must be like blood, black, clotted blood. And that means snails, decomposing in the dyers’ workshops. The smell is enough to make the angels weep. Imagine that. All those snails, crushed, just to elevate a man to the heavens. What colour will you wear when you are emperor?”
“If I am emperor,” Botulfr corrected.
“What? Nonsense! Because your own family seeks to make worm’s meat of you? Yes, yes, I have my apparatus, my spies. An emperor must see clearly. Tell me, do you think that blood cannot turn to water?”
“We Northmen keep our oaths.”
“And what oaths has your brother sworn to you? None. Let me tell you about these thrones of ours. I am a grandson of the great Antiochus, but to claim the purple, the purple I was born to, I had to march an army to the Charisian Gate. How the people rejoiced to proclaim me Basileus! The whole world longed to see the true pilot of imperial dignity. The army loved me; I had shared their salt, sweated across mountains and plains with them, knew them as a body and as men.”
Botulfr was having a hard time following the meandering mind of the emperor, but he was charmed despite himself. Botulfr slid a pawn across the board. The basileus immediately countered with a knight.
“Where was I? Ah, I was telling you about my throne. My own family, the House of Chrysaphes is an old one, and trust me when I say it is as murderous as it is ancient. Antiochus had marched my pawn forward—like so—and bequeathed me his empire. I shouldn’t have been surprised when my small-minded cousin Zenon wrested the purple from me. Palace coups were common enough; any fool with a belly full of wine and envy can claim a throne. But I had forgotten the centuries circle each other. I did not learn the lessons of Herodotus or Procopius.”
Botulfr took his move, and the emperor continued without looking up.
“I escaped into the country and went north, to my homelands, where I pondered on the game ahead. The solution seemed to me to be the same as before, so I called for my captains, and I marched my army again, like so.”
He pushed a second pawn into play. “The jubilation of the crowds was all the sweeter the second time. They opened the gates for me before the first cock-crow.”
“And your rival?” Botulfr wasn’t very familiar with the game, so he mirrored his opponent’s move with the knight, hoping that a frown would mask his inexperience.
“Zenon? He managed to escape capture, just as I had done. He put to sea. You and I could be at full sail in less than ten minutes from now. The prefect’s men found him three weeks later, just across the Horn, visited by the bloody flux for his sins. He was shitting out his last with the Devil at his side. He got off lightly. The Arabs do revenge well—one rebel prince was recently gibbeted alive and sewn into a cow’s skin, the horns were arranged at ear level to gradually crush the prisoner’s head as the carcass dried out. I should have handed Zenon to them, but he stank worse than the snails.”
The basileus edged another pawn forward. Botulfr shifted in his seat.
“My people have a punishment called the blood eagle, reserved for very special oath-breakers.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. Never let your own guards get raucous and reckless in the halls of another nation. It puts you at as much a disadvantage as imitating your opponent in a game you have never played. Perhaps your wife had Hermes whisper in your ear too?”
The emperor hadn’t stopped smiling, but Botulfr was finding it impossible to keep his resolve from buckling.
Gregoras continued. “Do you know why I adopted a double-headed eagle as my emblem? It is because I claimed the imperial diadem not once, but twice. I am an emperor who sees past and future. I play the long game.”
Botulfr had contained himself as long as he could. He picked up his queen and twirled it between his finger and thumb until the emperor paused.
“Why was my mother murdered?”
Gregoras seemed taken aback. “I could not say. Your people do not take oaths lightly, but I give you mine that I had no hand in your mother’s death. I have no guilty mind, as God is my witness and judge. I shall pray for her soul. So we all have our demons, and now I know yours. Would you care to know mine?”
The prince nodded. The emperor didn’t seem perturbed or offended. Botulfr was relieved and felt a burden lifted from him.
“You might wonder if I have been successful. My empire is resurgent, and the old enemies of my youth have withered and faded away. The wolves of Arabia, the Saracen Caliphs and Emirs, have turned their fangs on each other; the Hashimids, Umayyads, and Rassids who used to banquet here and challenge me to shatranj now war with each other over who is the best custodian of a heap of sand. In Persia, the Red Khurramites rose in revolt against their Muslim masters, fomented by my coin and supported by my armies of course. They are a much more amenable neighbour, content to rule in a stupor. The Turkish tribes have wandered south, down along the Caspian Sea, first into Azerbaijan, the Land of Holy Fire, and then south to the Tigris and Euphrates where they now pitch their yurts and graze their sheep. The Danube forms a natural border to the north, secured with new forts; the Bulgars are beaten and integrated into my armies; the Kurgan of the Pecheneg’s paid off, too, until I have time or inclination to catch him. There, I have named my demons, and I have bested them.”
“All of them except for my father.”
The emperor smiled. “Your father? Your father and his father before him, all your forefathers in fact, are guilty only of plucking thorns from my paw. They are St. Jerome to my lion. They have routed the heirs of Charlemagne and their bastard empire in the West. Around the time you were born, your father’s longships sailed up the Tiber and carried off Gelasius, the Bishop of Rome, still clinging to the verdict of Chalcedon. We share no borders and manage a healthy trade. Your father and I have no quarrel, beyond my lands in Sicily perhaps.”
“My advisors tell me otherwise.”
“An open enemy is better than a false friend. Prince Botulfr, everyone receives advice. Only the wise profit from it. The larger your realm grows, the more voices you will hear. Will you have some wine?”
The servants appeared again with crystal decanters and goblets. Botulfr put down the queen and picked up the king from the board.
“Well, then, as my enemy in plain sight: my wife asked me once, what I thought were the essential qualities for a great king.”
“What did you answer?”
“What would you answer?”
“I determined early in my reign that, where force of arms failed, Christian meekness might overcome. I have sought to reconcile with your malevolent North. I have sent my spies into the lands of the Rus, into old Britannia and even to that log-pile that passes for a court at Uppsala. Not to preach and proselytize, though; that has only hardened heathen hearts.”
“Your minions seem to think all the Norse want is wealth,” said Botulfr. “Silks and silver can be as much weapons as swords and spears.”
“Gilpractus is my treasurer, a financier. He thinks everyone is as obsessed with gold as he is.”
“So kindness is your answer? I was taught a king’s son should be thoughtful, thorough, and silent, and brave in battle.”
“I am also known as Gregoras the Gregarious; I wouldn’t council the same. Industry, rather. I am the rule and the measure for all men. I spend the greater part of each night in singing hymns, yet, even when worn out with continual prayer and want of sleep, I rise at dawn. I find the will to apply myself to state business, deciding about the election of magistrates and the requests of petitioners. How to care for the pawns—because they will win you the game. If your wife were to gauge the art of ruling as a science, then I strive to be the highest of philosophers. Do you hunt?”
“Of course he does. His reputation precedes him. Does he breed his dogs and coursers?”
“Dogs. He has a pack of moosehounds who follow his every move.”
“And does he have dogs for herding cattle and sheep?”
“Yes, yes, Vallhunds and all kinds.”
“And does he feed even the lame dogs and the mongrels?”
“Yes, scraps from his own table.”
“Then your father is a good king. An empire is a hybrid, a mutt born from the conquest of a dozen fathers. In my army, I march with Saracens, Indians, Egyptians, Assyrians, Vandals, Alans, and Armenians. Not just Greek and Roman soldiers. Sooner or later, every empire is a misbegotten mongrel. Did you know I am Bulgarian by birth? Treat your poor and your debased with kindness. They will anoint you with the purple, birthright or no.”
“My skald said the same. That I should listen to all manner of men. My father barely notices the poor and debased because he is hunting so much.”
“Then I mourn for you, having lost both a mother and father so young.”
Botulfr melted at that comment and blushed profusely. There was an intimacy to the conversation that he hadn’t expected, that he hadn’t experienced with his own father. This great emperor was talking to him, if not as an equal, then as a favoured son. He decided to change the subject.
“I didn’t understand your comment earlier. Who are Gog and Magog?”
“A small joke. There is a book called the Apocalypse, written during the Arab invasions, to remind us they were just a sandstorm and that the real end of days, predicted by Christ, was still ahead. The true harbingers of our doom are the unclean nations, led by the giants I mentioned, Gog and Magog. They will issue from the North and devastate the whole world.”
“So, it was a joke at my expense?”
“Yes, but a learned one. I offer my apologies. I am afraid the worst of it is that Gog and Magog were so ugly and so foul that Alexander of Macedon prayed to the Lord to draw mountains together to wall them in. They ate the dead. Decomposing snails, too, in all likelihood. I shudder to think.”
“Jötnar then? Not men. They sound like the foes of all men and gods. Askr, my skald, will tell you that the Jötnar have the power of oncoming storms, roaring volcanoes, and the clamorous oceans. I had come to believe you and your Kristins were that self-same doom.”
“That I was a giant?”
“A Jötunn can be as huge as a mountain or as beguiling as the changing seasons. This Great City and its churches seem to swallow people whole.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose,” said the emperor. “God does not swallow souls, he saves them. You sound less convinced now? Perhaps your Jötunn and my giants are the same. Our sins returned to haunt us. Christian sins are nightmares that suffocate your sleep, serpents that strangle reason, burning envies that grow into a mighty fire. They are forces we cannot control, the passions that enslave us, and God helps us in that struggle.”
“Either that,” said Botulfr, “or the North and the East are each the doom of the other, and our gods will meet in battle.”
“A pact then! To avert disaster for our people and to show proper respect to Heaven. We need not hasten to our demise. The longer we hold to our oaths, the more righteous our path, the better the world in our charge, is that not so?”
“And that is why you spoke of Væringjar, of faithful companions?”
“Perhaps. Tell me, who do you trust? You are suckled by a she-wolf and you run with a loyal pack, like a latter-day Romulus. Perhaps you are a son of Troy after all. You are blessed with your mother’s fierce loyalty, but cursed, like me, with a fickle family. There are many men who think this pretty purple thing would suit them well.”
The emperor patted the hem of his cloak, then stopped smiling and abruptly turned solemn.
“Not far from these walls is a harbour, constructed long ago from native stone and marbles. The buildings there, and the harbour itself, are named Boucoleon for the sculptured lion that sits seizing a bull. He clings to the bull’s horn, pulling his head back, fixing his teeth in the bull’s throat. Return home now, and you will be the bull, brave and resilient but also torn and savaged. In that harbour is also a fleet in need of a commander. Stay with me now, and I will return you home a lion.”
“BIKKJU-SONR!” SON OF A BITCH!
All of Boucoleon resounded with the curse, the gulls answering with shrieks and cries as they winged their way to safety. Botulfr stayed calm and listened to the waves lap the harbour wall. He was accustomed now to arguing on a rolling deck and kept his feet firmly planted.
The hird were all idling around the Roman ship, except for Gest, who was resting his forehead on the mast, partly for support and partly because he was then out of reach of Harald, who was stomping around the deck.
“Just to be clear, we march into the palace of Surtr the Black, the destroyer of worlds, and you come out with a commission and a fleet?”
“More!” said Botulfr. “A Golden Bull decreeing me the captain of his faithful guard. Look, a seal of three gold coins!”
“I’m not sure what you expected,” said Olaf, examining the forecastle and the pavesade where the crew would hang their shields. “The last time we left him alone, he got married.”
Gest gently rocked backwards and tapped his head on the mast. “Old button-arse has given us permission to wage his private wars for him? How kind.”
Botulfr thought about Gregoras, and how he projected himself. The emperor was always calm, always methodical.
“We will be seizing the emperor’s enemies at sea in return for our share. For our part, we lend him our axes and our wits.”
Harald turned suddenly, thought for a second, and then slapped Gest hard on the back, which in turn, knocked his head hard against the mast.
“Well, then, my only question is, how big is the share?”
“Exactly. We wanted to raise men to raid the coasts and make our fortune. We wanted to hide in plain sight, safe from assassins and treachery. This way, we have everything we need—” Botulfr insisted, spreading his arms wide, “—weapons, dromons, soldiers, and a license to plunder.”
“What will she carry?” asked Olaf. “One hundred and fifty men? Two decks, two masts—I bet she flies.”
Askr had been silent and still throughout. When he spoke, he sounded resigned and weary.
“You’ve made us thralls to the Kristins. Their god is not to be worshiped but mocked.”
“Or just ignored,” said Botulfr. “We are still free men, Askr, just sworn to Gregoras. He’ll make us rich, and even if we are his puppets, well, the art of being a slave is to rule one’s master. You wanted us to cut the strings? At least we hold them in our grasp.”
Ellisif was the last to offer her opinion. She was watching Olaf prowl towards the captain’s tent and peek inside.
“The Austman looks like the cat who got the cream, while the skald is lost for words. Even if this Gregoras is mulling civil war, like so much communion wine, the path ends with my husband on the throne. The end justifies the means.”
She exuded authority as if she were already a queen.
“In the meantime, my husband needs a father. This Gregoras is a man like any other, and he fears us as much as we fear him. I followed him in his hall. Most of all, he fears death and tries to save himself with prayer. It is a foolish man thinks he will live forever if he keeps away from fighting; old age won’t grant him a truce, even if the spears do.”
Olaf hopped down, and perched beside her. “You followed him? How, with all the guards? That sounds like a trick worth teaching.”
“It is a trick that would unman you. Save yourself for whipping the soldiers into shape.”
Harald leant against the gunwales and started humming. “Well, that settles it, then, if witch-wife has seen everything. As long as any Grikk soldiers sleep on different ships. I don’t want to be buggered in my sleep. Now, is it time for dinner? That last feast was a good one—you missed a lot, Princeling. Olaf turned a fish on his plate and all those rassragr courtiers jumped up and whimpered about how these barbarians were insulting their emperor. A fish! Do you know what the punishment for turning your fish around on a plate is? Death! I want to see what they do to murderers and oath breakers. No sense of proportion, these small people.”
Gest guffawed, punched Askr on the arm. “Cheer up, skald. We’ll write that saga yet. My Prince, how many ships in our fleet? And what shall we call this ship of ours?”
The tide was turning, Botulfr noted. The hird debated, their prince ruled, and they moved on with his decision. He stared at his wife in admiration, unsure of what she knew or how she knew it, but glad she was always watching. They all started back up the gangplank, the inspection over. Even Askr was smiling now.
“It is Surtr’s ship, we should call it Naglfr,” the skald offered.
Harald seemed appalled. “Why not just put Loki at the helm while we are about it?”
Olaf chuckled and offered up a short verse:
With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
The ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look;
This ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
On went she, and due north her journey took.
Askr almost hooted in surprise. “Who’s been drinking the mead of poetry now?”
“Ormstungr,” spat Harald. Snaketongue. “He is always babbling nonsense. He should have been a skald, or a Kristin, signing Psalms on Sunnudagr.”
Botulfr smiled at his wife and helped her onto the dock, the rest of the hird marching off in search of sustenance. It was odd, to be in such a warm place with the Yule feast so close. The sky was reddening, Sol hung low on Midgard’s belt. Tomorrow would be a fine day for sailing. He called up to his men.
“Did I mention that the Kristins think the end of the world is coming too?”
Harald bridled and let out a yell. “I’ll end your world if you don’t shut up.” Adding, after a moment’s hesitation, an apologetic, “…my Prince.”
They all laughed and walked on to their meal.