Sworn Brother (56 page)

‘This is to avenge Grettir Asmundarson, the man you foully murdered,’ Thorstein called out as he stepped across the watching circle of men, raised the nicked sword and from his great height brought it slicing down directly on Ongul’s unprotected skull. Thorstein had found the sweet spot. The sword bit through Ongul’s skull and split his head like a melon. The man who had killed my closest friend died instantly.

For a moment there was stunned silence. The onlookers gazed down at Ongul’s corpse, sprawled on the flagstones of the parade ground. Thorstein made no move to escape. He stood with bloody sword in his grasp, an expression of profound satisfaction on his face. Then he calmly wiped the blood from the sword, walked across to where I stood and handed it to me with the words, ‘In Grettir’s memory.’

As soon as word of the killing reached the excubitors, who were responsible for police duties, a Greek officer arrived to place Thorstein under arrest. He offered no resistance but allowed himself to be led quietly away. He was at peace with himself. He had done what he had set out to do.

‘He hasn’t got a hope,’ said Thorstein’s platoon commander, looking on. He was a tough veteran from Jutland with ten years’ service in the guard. ‘To kill within the palace precincts is a capital offence. The pen pushers in the imperial secretariat dislike us so much that they will lose no opportunity to damage the regiment. They will say that Ongul’s death was just another squalid brawl amongst bloodthirsty barbarians. Thorstein’s as good as dead.’

‘Isn’t there anything that can be done to help him?’ I asked from the edge of the little group of onlookers. The Jutlander turned to look at me, standing there with Grettir’s sword in my hand.

‘Not unless you can oil the wheels of justice,’ he said. Grettir’s sword felt like a living thing in my grasp. ‘What happens when a guardsman dies on active service?’ I asked.’

‘His possessions are divided among his comrades. That’s our custom. If he leaves a widow or children, we auction off his personal effects and the money goes to them, along with any back pay that is outstanding.’

‘You say that Thorstein is as good as dead. Could you organise an auction of his possessions in the barracks, including the sale of this sword? Ongul told you how he looted it from Grettir the Strong, even used it for his death blow, and you’ve seen how Thorstein took it back.’

The Jutlander looked at me in surprise. ‘That sword’s worth two years’ salary,’ he said.

‘I know, but Thorstein presented me with the weapon and I would gladly put it up for auction.’

The platoon commander looked intrigued. He knew me only as Thorstein’s valet and was probably curious to know what role

I had played in this affair. Perhaps he was wondering if he could acquire the sword for himself. ‘It’s irregular, but I will see what I can do,’ he said. It’ll be better if the auction is held without the Greeks knowing. They would only claim that we were so avaricious that we sold off Thorstein’s effects before he was even dead. Not that they can accuse others of avarice. They’re the past masters.’

‘There’s one more thing I would ask,’ I continued. ‘A lot of people heard Thorstein shout out the name of Grettir the Strong just before he cut down Thorbjorn Ongul. No one really knows why he did so, though there’s a lot of speculation. If the auction could be held tonight, just when interest is at its height, it would attract the largest number. More than just his platoon.’

In fact nearly half the regiment crowded into the courtyard of the Numera barracks to attend the auction that evening, cramming themselves into the porticos that surrounded the yard. It was precisely what I had wanted.

Thorstein’s platoon commander, Ragnvald, called them to silence. ‘All of you know what happened this afternoon. Thorstein, nicknamed the Galleon, took the life of his fellow countryman, Thorbjorn Ongul, and none of us know why. Thorbjorn can’t tell us because he’s dead and Thorstein is in solitary confinement awaiting trial. But this man, Thorgils Leifsson, claims he can answer your questions, and he wants to auction the sword that Thorstein gave him.’ He turned to me. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

I climbed up on a block of stone and faced my audience. Then I held up the sword so all could see it and waited until I had their complete attention. ‘Let me tell you where this sword comes from, how it was found among the dead, where it travelled, and the story of the remarkable man who owned it.’ And then I proceeded to tell the tale of Grettir the Strong and his remarkable career, from the night we had robbed the barrow grave, through all our times together, both good and bad: how he had twice saved my life, first in a tavern brawl and then aboard a foundering ship. I told them about the man: how perverse and stubborn he could be, how often his best intentions had led to tragedy, how he could be violent and brutal, how he did not know his own strength and yet had struggled to remain honest to himself in the face of adversity. I went on to describe his life as an outlaw in the wilderness, his victories in hand-to-hand combat over those who had been sent to kill him and how, finally, he had been defeated by black seidr invoked by Thorbjorn Ongul’s volva foster-mother, and had died on Drang.

It was Grettir’s saga and, as I told it, I knew that the men who heard it would remember and repeat the tale so that Grettir’s name would live on in honoured memory. I was fulfilling my final promise to my sworn brother.

When I had finished my tale, the Jutlander stood up. ‘Time to auction the sword of Grettir the Strong,’ he called out. ‘From what we have just heard, Ongul’s death was not murder, but an act of honourable revenge, justified under our own laws and customs. I suggest that the money raised from the sale of this sword is put towards the expense of defending Thorstein Galleon in the law courts of Constantinople. I call upon you to be generous.’

Then something remarkable happened. The bidding for the sword began, but it was not in the manner I had anticipated. Each of the Guardsmen shouted out a price far less than I had expected. One after another they called out a number and the Jutlander carved marks on a tally stick. Finally the bidding stopped. The Jutlander looked down at the marks. ‘Seven pounds in gold, and five numisma. That’s the total,’ he announced. ‘That should be enough to see that Thorstein avoids the hangman’s rope, and receives instead a prison sentence.’

He looked round the circle of watching faces. ‘My platoon has a vacancy,’ he called. ‘I propose that it is filled, not by purchase, but by acclamation of our general gathering. I propose to you that the place of Thorstein Galleon is taken by the sworn brother to Grettir Asmundarsson. Do you agree?’

A general mutter of agreement came back. One or two guardsmen banged their sword hilts on the stones. The Jutlander turned to me. ‘Thorgils, you may keep the sword. Use it as a member of the guard.’

And that is how I, Thorgils Leifsson, was recruited into the imperial guard of the basileus in Metropolis, and was on hand to pledge my allegiance to the man called the ‘thunderbolt of the north’ or, to some, the last of the Vikings. In his service I would travel to the very hub of the world, win spoils of war sufficient to rig a ship with sails of silk, and — as his spy and diplomat - come within an arrow’s length of placing him on the throne of England.

T
horstein
G
alleon
did
take his revenge on the murderer of Grettir his half-brother, according to Grettir’s Saga written
cad
1325. That saga traces the celebrated events in Grettir’s life, from his rebellious childhood, through the plundering of a barrow grave and his many escapades as a notorious outlaw, to his eventual death on Drang Island at the hands of Thorbjorn Ongul and a posse of local farmers. Thorstein Galleon is said to have tracked down Thorbjorn Ongul to Constantinople and confronted him at a weapons inspection of the Varangian guard. Ongul was boasting how he had killed the outlaw with Grettir’s own sword, taken from him as he lay dying. The weapon was passed from hand to hand among the guardsmen and when it came to Thorstein, in the words of the saga, ‘Thorstein took the short sword, and at once raised it up and struck at Ongul. The blow landed on his head, and it was so powerful that the sword went right down to his jaws. Thorbjorn Ongul fell dead to the ground. Everyone was speechless
..
.’

from
Grettir’s Saga,
translated by Denton Fox and Hermann Palsson, University of Toronto Press,
1998