He turned and gestured at the arena that had been prepared for the morning’s combat. A burlap cloth ten ells on a side had been spread over flat ground, surrounded on three sides by trenches and then a rope fence. Outside the rope, the enormous throng was already assembling; despite the carnage on the river, seven, perhaps even eight, thousand Rus had reached St Gregory’s Island. As Hakon had requested, Grettir had seen to it that the prettiest slaves were brought up closest to the rope. Hakon had mentioned something about wanting to see ‘their white skins speckled with raven’s-wine’.
No trench or rope ringed in the fourth side of the cloth. At the suggestion of Hakon – and strangely enough, the condition had been acceded to by that eagle-meat, Green-wood – the fourth border of the arena was a drop of one hundred ells off the sheer rock cliffs that thrust the island up from the Dnieper.
Haraldr had ordered everyone out of his tent. If his hands shook, he’d just as soon keep that to himself. A high-pitched, steadily whining ring filled his head. He had not slept all night; over the past few days he had confirmed too many grisly tales of Hakon’s prowess to think he could still defeat the demon who waited for him at the black centre of being. He remembered an old saying: ‘No man lives to evening whom the fates condemn at morning.’
Haraldr had already honed his sword, and now he took a piece of pumice and roughened the bone handle. The sun slipped behind a cloud, darkened his tent like dusk. For a moment he had an ineffable vision of some vast catastrophe, perhaps the vanishing of an entire age, that he would join with his death. He recalled another verse. An axe age, a sword age, shields are ripped asunder. A storm age, a wolf age, before the world-orb shatters. Man will offer no mercy or forgiveness.
And then the last dragon will fly in the darkness.
Haraldr tested the sword handle. Ready. The dragon waited for them all, man or God. Even all-conquering Kristr would one day be swallowed. There was no shame in that. The important thing was to spit in the beast’s eye. Haraldr stood up, pulled his sword girdle around Emma, collected his spear and shields, and walked out of his tent. The sun suddenly emerged from the clouds, and the brilliance of his polished byrnnie dazzled him. He thought how happy he would be to see his father, Olaf and Jarl Rognvald again.
‘Not here, marmot-mind, I can’t see!’
‘I’m wagering fifteen grivnas.’
‘That’s him! He’s big enough--’
‘Hakon pulled the hearts out of the Pechenegs with his bare hands and fed them to his women!’
‘Your tongue is drunk.’
‘They say a giant snake fell from the sky this morning. . . .’
Gleb led Haraldr through the confused chatter of the traders and slaves. Rumours had buzzed in the night like mosquitoes. Most who knew anything at all were incredulous. Jarl Rognvald dead, and a member of the junior Druzhina, Haraldr Something-or-other, challenging Hakon for command of the fleet. And what was Gleb the pilot doing, championing the upstart?
Haraldr felt as light as down in the wind, dizzied by the warmth, dazzled by the multihued finery that the crowd had donned in celebration of their passage of the cataracts. Silk and Frisian cloth bloomed like bright flowers; pendants and arm rings sparkled like dewdrops on a bright spring morning. The slave girl, the raven-haired one he’d praised in Kiev, waited for him by the rope, her lips as red as blood. She was his Valkyrja.
The blow on his chest almost knocked him over.
‘You’re not here to nap!’ Gleb spat at his feet, doughy mouth working pugnaciously. He looked as if he’d like to shove Haraldr again. ‘And that’s no mattress with a Roman-cloth pillow.’ He pointed to the dull brown burlap square and the ominous opening to Haraldr’s right.
Ice frosted Haraldr’s bones. He felt the anxiety, not the gaiety, in the crowd. Their fates hinged on this. Then he saw Halldor and Ulfr only a few steps away, waiting to come forward and second him. It was not so easy to die when other lives were at stake.
‘Diminisher of the wolf’s hunger! Hawk-hill of the Great King!’ Grettir strode onto the burlap square with arms raised. Hakon’s brutish head and oxen shoulders thrust above the crowd. Crushed herbs and dried petals flew in the air before him. Pipes skirled. Hakon’s byrnnie iridesced like golden glass; his tallowed yellow hair gleamed. His two concubines, surprisingly lovely young women with ornate embossed silver belts cinched around their narrow waists, massaged his huge shoulders.
Grettir stood in the square and explained the traditional rules of the island-going contest. Battle to the death. Three shields only. One spear, one sword, one axe. A man can step into the ditch – though of course he would be put at quite a disadvantage by doing so – but if he goes beyond the rope, voluntarily or not, he must forfeit all of the stakes. Oh, and one final point, though it was rather obvious: a man who goes into the river has also lost.
Stanislav – an assistant to the Bishop of Kiev, who had come with the fleet as its spiritual leader – stepped into the square and motioned the combatants forward. Hakon’s grin was mocking, and a pungent oil glistened on the fine, tight braids of his beard; the gold spangles winked. The thin, sallow priest raised an ornate gold censer and swung it hesitantly. A few droplets sprayed in the air. ‘God the Father said, “In as much as I destroyed mankind with water because of their sins, I will now wash away the sins of man once more through . . .” ‘
‘I met a man who knew your mother, Green-wood,’ Hakon barked over the priest’s invocation. ‘He says your father was a hound, not a man. Though your mother rutted with a shipload of Estlanders, she couldn’t whelp until your flea-crawling father vomited in her cunt. It’s no seed of man you were born of, Green-wood.’
The priest would have swooned, but Gleb rushed up and snatched him back into the crowd. Grettir came forward. ‘Announce the seconds! Then let the Valkyrja weave their crimson cloth!’
Hakon’s paint-rimmed, ember-flecked eyes probed through the thickening din of the crowd and clutched at Haraldr’s soul. His brutish nostrils flared and he turned to his entourage. ‘My seconds. Alfhild and Inger.’ Hakon grinned and snorted. The silver-girt, silk-skirted concubines stepped forward, burdened under shields and weapons. The crowd tittered nervously and some of the Varangians guffawed stiffly.
Haraldr calmed himself with the observation that the Varangians had not enjoyed the joke at his expense nearly as much as they had the other night. He turned and waved his arm to his side of the square. ‘My seconds. Halldor Snorrason and Ulfr Uspaksson.’
The veins at the corners of Hakon’s eyes twitched wildly. ‘You’re pelican meat!’ he shouted to his erstwhile followers. ‘I’ll fly your skins from my mast!’ But the buzzing among the Varangians and the crowd did not offer a chorus to Hakon’s outrage.
‘Raven’s flock and eagles gather! Folk-Mower prepares to sip the raven-wine with his thin lips!’
Grettir finished his overture with a bow. Out of the corner of his eyed Haraldr saw a metallic flash and a blurring shaft; Hakon had already begun his attack. The spear struck his conical helm with a dull clatter and caromed off into the crowd. Haraldr’s head whirled, and brilliant little sparks scattered in the descending night. Some reflex urged him to launch his own spear before his knees weakened and his vision darkened. Through a watery blur he saw Hakon bat the flying spear away, spin, and raise Folk-Mower flaring into the sky. Hakon’s axe thundered against Haraldr’s shield, almost immediately shattering most of the wooden boards. Drop it! Haraldr screamed to himself. It’s useless! Where’s Hakon!