Byzantium

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 sentiments 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 Miklagard, 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? Miklagard! they said. The king is going to Miklagard. 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