Sworn Brother (47 page)

‘Don’t trust the staallu men,’ he warned me. ‘Last night I visited the saivo to consult your saivo companion about what will happen. My journey was shadowy and disturbed, and I sensed death and deceit. But I could not see from where it came, though a voice told me that already you knew the danger.’

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I respected him too much to doubt his sincerity. ‘Rassa, I will remember what you have said. I can look after myself, and it is you who have the greater task - to look after the siida. I hope that the spirits guard and protect your people, for they are in my memory always.’

‘Go now’ said the stunted little man. ‘your companions are good men and they will bring you to the staallu place safely. After that you must guard yourself. Goodbye.’

It took four days of steady skiing, always southward, to reach the place where my siida traded with the outsiders. At night the four of us wrapped ourselves in furs and slept beside our sledges. We ate dried food or, on the second evening, a ptarmigan which one of the hunters knocked down with his throwing stick. As we drew closer to the meeting place, I sensed my comrades’ growing nervousness. They feared the foreign traders and the last day we travelled in complete silence, as if we were on our way to hunt a dangerous wild beast. We detected the staallu men from a great distance. In that pristine, quiet forest we heard them and smelled the smoke from their cooking fire. My companions halted at once, and one of them slipped out of the hauling harness and glided off quietly to scout. The others pulled the sledges out of sight and we waited. Our scout returned to say that two staallu men were camped in the place where they usually waited for the silent trade. With them were four more men, boaz men. For a moment I was puzzled. Then I understood that he was talking about the slaves who would act as porters for the traders.

The foreign traders had already displayed their trade goods in a deserted clearing, the bundles hung like fruit from the trees. That night our little group furtively approached, and in the first light of dawn my companions examined what was on offer — cloth, salt, metal items. Apparently they were satisfied, for we hurriedly unloaded the sledges of the furs, replaced them with the trade goods, and soon the Sabme were ready to depart. They embraced me and skiied away as silently as they had arrived, leaving me among their furs.

This is how the traders found me, to their amazement: seated on a bundle of prime furs in a deserted forest glade, as if I had appeared by magic, and wearing my noiade’s heavy bearskin cloak.

T
hey
spoke
crude
Norse.

‘Frey’s prick! What have we got here?’ the first one called out to his companion. The two men were clumsily pushing themselves forward across the snow with stout poles, each on a single ski in the Norse fashion. I thought how ungainly they looked compared with the agile Sabme. Both men were bundled up in heavy coats, felt hats and thick loose trousers gathered into stout boots.

‘Nice cape he’s got on,’ said the other. ‘A bearskin that size would fetch a good price.’

‘So would he,’ replied his companion. ‘Go up to him slowly. I’ll see if I can get behind him. They say that once those Skridfinni get going, there’s no hope of catching up with them. Act friendly.’

They sidled closer, the leader wearing a false smile which only emphasised that his bulbous nose was dripping a slimy trail down his heavy moustache and beard.

I waited until they were within a few paces and then said clearly, ‘Greetings. The bearskin is not for sale.’

The pair of them stopped in their tracks. They were too astonished to speak.

‘Nor are the furs in the pack I am sitting on,’ I continued. ‘Your furs are lying over there. They are fair exchange for the goods you left.’

The two men recovered from their shock that I had spoken in their language.

‘Where did you drop from?’ the leader asked belligerently, mistaking me for a rival. ‘This is our patch. No one trespasses.’ ‘I came with the furs,’ I said.

For a moment they did not believe me. Then they read the ski tracks of my Sabme companions. They clearly came from the rim of the silent forest and then returned again. Then the traders noted my Sabme fur hat, and the deerskin shoes that Allba had sewn for me.

‘I want to get to the coast,’ I said. ‘I would pay you well.’

The two men looked at one another. ‘How much?’ asked the snot-nosed individual bluntly.

‘A pair of marten skins, perfectly matched,’ I suggested.

It must have been a generous offer because both men nodded at once. Then the leader turned to his companion and said, ‘Here, let’s see what they’ve left for us,’ and began to grub among the furs that the Sabme hunters had left behind. Apparently satisfied, he turned back towards his camp and let out a huge bellow. Out of the thickets appeared a sad little procession. Four men bundled up against the cold in ragged and dirty clothes trudged along on small square boards attached to their feet, dragging crude sledges. They were what my Sabme companions had called the boaz people, porters and hauliers for the fur traders. As they loaded the sledges, I saw they had the beaten air of thralls and did not understand more than a few words of their masters’ language. Every command was accompanied by kicks and blows as well as simple gestures to show what needed to be done.

The two fur traders, Vermundr and Angantyr, told me they were collecting the furs on behalf of their felag. It was the same word the Jomsvikings had used to describe their military fellowship, but in the mouths of the fur traders the meaning was much debased. Their felag was a group of merchants who swore to help one another and share profits and expenses. But it was soon apparent to me that Vermundr and Angantyr were both prepared to cheat their colleagues. They demanded my marten skins in advance, hid them in their personal belongings, and when we reached the rendezvous with the felag at the trading town of Aldeigjuborg they failed to mention the extra pelts.

I had never seen so much mud in my life as I found at Aldeigjuborg. Everywhere you walked you sank almost ankle deep, and within a day I had lost both of Allba’s shoes and had to buy a pair of heavy boots. Built on a swampy riverside, Aldeigjuborg lies in that region the Norse call Gardariki, the land of forts, and is the gateway to an area stretching for an unimaginable distance to the east. The place is surrounded by endless forest, so all the houses are made of wood. The logs are cut, squared and laid to make walls, the roofs are wooden shingles, and a tall fence of wooden stakes encloses each house’s yard. The houses have been erected at random so there is no single main street, and barely any attempt is made to keep the roadways passable. Occasionally a layer of tree trunks is laid down on the earth to provide a surface, but in the spring these trees sink into the soft soil and are soon slippery with rain. Everywhere the puddles are fed by the filth seeping out from the house yards. There is no drainage and, when I was there, each householder used his yard as a latrine and rubbish dump, never clearing away the squalor. As a result the place stank and rotted at the same time.

Yet Aldeigjuborg was thriving. Flotillas of small boats were constantly coming and going at the landing staithes along the river. They were laden with the commercial products of the northern woodlands — furs, honey, beeswax, either obtained cheaply by silent barter such as I had witnessed or, more usually, by straightforward extortion. Gangs of heavily armed traders travelled into the remoter regions and demanded tribute from the forest-dwelling peoples. Often they obliged the natives to provide them with porters and oarsmen as well, so the muddy lanes of Aldeigjuborg were thronged with Polians, Krivichi, Berendeis, Severyane, Pechenegs and Chuds, as well as people from tribes so obscure that they had no known name. A few were traders in their own right, but the majority were kholops — slaves.

With such a rapacious and mixed population, Aldeigjuborg was a turbulent place. The town was nominally subject to the overlord of Kiev, a great city several days’ journey to the south, and he appointed a member of his family as regent. But real power lay in the hands of the merchants, particularly the better armed ones. They were commonly known as Varangians, a name by which I was proud to call myself in later days, but when I first met them I was appalled by their behaviour. They were out-and-out ruffians. Mostly of Swedish descent, they came to Gardariki to make their fortunes. They took the var - the oath which formed them into felags - and became a law unto themselves. Some hired themselves out as mercenaries to whoever would pay the highest price; others joined felags which masqueraded as trading groups, though they were little more than pirate bands. The most notorious of all the felags when I arrived was the one to which Vermundr and Angantyr belonged, and no Varangian was more feared than its leader, Ivarr known as the Pitiless. Vermundr and Angantyr were so terrified of him that the moment we arrived in Aldeigjuborg they took me straight to see their leader to report on their mission and seek his approval of what they had done.

Ivarr held court - that is the only phrase - in a large warehouse close to the landing place. Like all the other buildings of Aldeigjuborg, it was single-storey though far bigger than most. Two scruffy guards lounged at the entrance gate and checked everyone who entered, removing any weapons they found and demanding a bribe to let visitors past. Led across the filthy yard, I was taken into Ivarr’s living quarters - a scene of barbaric squalor. The single main room was decorated in what I learned was a style favoured by tribal rulers in the east. Rich brocades and carpets, mostly patterned in red, black and blue, hung from the walls. Cushions and couches provided the only furniture and the room was lit by heavy brass lamps on chains. Even though it was midday, these were burning and the place smelled of candle wax and stale food. Half-eaten meals lay on trays on the floor, and the rugs were stained with spilled wine and kvas, the local beer. Half a dozen Varangs, dressed in their characteristic baggy trousers and loose, belted shirts, stood or squatted around the edge of the room. Some were playing dice, others were talking idly among themselves, but all took care to show that they were there in attendance upon their leader.

Ivarr was one of those remarkable men whose physical presence arouses immediate fear. I have met much bigger men in my life of travel, and I have observed men who make it their style to inspire dread with threatening gestures or a cruel manner of speech. Ivarr imposed his will by exuding sheer brute menace, and he did so naturally without conscious effort. Between forty and fifty years old, he was short and so thick-set that he could have been a wrestler, albeit a dandified one, for he was wearing a rust-coloured velvet tunic, and silk pantaloons, and his feet were encased in soft yellow leather boots trimmed with fur. His short, powerful arms had small hands, and his stubby fingers were decorated with expensive rings. The most striking feature about him was his head. Like his body, it was round and compact. The skin was the colour of antique walrus ivory and hinted of mixed ancestry, maybe part-Norse and part-Asiatic. His eyes were dark brown, and he had greased and perfumed his ample beard so that it lay on the front of his tunic like a glossy black animal. By contrast his scalp was shaved clean except for a single lock of hair, which hung from the side of his head in a long curl and touched his left shoulder. This, it seemed, was regarded as a sign of royalty, which Ivarr claimed to be. But for the moment my attention was caught by his right ear. It was decorated with three studs - two pearls and between them a large single diamond.