The Sorrow of Odin the Goth

348–366

Athanaric, king of the West Goths, hated Christ. Besides holding fast to the gods of his fathers, he feared the Church as a sly agent of the Empire. Let it gnaw away long enough, he said, and folk would find themselves bending the knee to Roman overlords. Therefore he egged men on against it, thwarted the kin of murdered Christians when they sought weregild, at last rammed laws through his Great Moot that left them open to wholesale slaughter as soon as some happening made tempers flare. Or so he thought. For their part, the baptized Goths, who by now were not few, drew together and spoke of letting the Lord God of Hosts decide the outcome.

Bishop Ulfilas called them unwise. Martyrs became saints, he agreed, but it was the body of the faithful that kept the Word alive on earth. He sought and obtained permission from Emperor Constantius for his flock to move into Moesia. Leading them across the Danube, he saw them settled under the Haemus Mountains. There they became a peaceable lot of herdsmen and farmers.

When this news reached Heorot, Ulrica laughed aloud. “Then my father is rid of them!”

She cried that too soon. For the next thirty years and more, Ulfilas worked on in his vineyard. Not every Christian Visigoth had followed him south. Some remained, among them chieftains strong enough to protect themselves and their underlings. These received missionaries, whose labors bore fruit. Athanaric’s persecutions caused the Christians to seek a leader of their own. They found one in Frithigern, also of the royal house. While it never came to open war between the factions, there were clashes aplenty. Younger, soon wealthier than his rival because of being favored by traders from the Empire, Frithigern brought many West Goths to join the Church as the years wore on, merely because that seemed a promising thing to do.

It touched the Ostrogoths little. The number of Christians among them did swell, but slowly and without rousing undue trouble. King Ermanaric cared naught about gods of any sort or about the next world. He was too busy seizing as much as he could of this one.

Up and down eastern Europe his wars raged. In several seasons’ fierce campaigning he broke the Heruls. Those who did not submit moved off to join westerly tribes bearing the same name. Aestii and Vendi were easier prey for Ermanaric. Unsated, he took his armies north, beyond the lands that his father had made tributary. In the end, a sweep of earth from the Elbe River to the Dnieper mouth acknowledged him overlord.

In these farings Tharasmund gained renown and booty. Yet he liked not the king’s harshness. Often in the moots he stood up not only for his own tribe but for others, on behalf of their ancient rights. Then Ermanaric must needs back down, however sullenly. The Teurings were as yet too powerful, or he not powerful enough, for him to make foemen of. This was the more true since many Goths would have feared to draw blade against a house whose strange forebear still guested it from time to time.

The Wanderer was there when they gave name to the third child of Tharasmund and Ulrica, Solbern. The second had died in its crib, but Solbern, like his brother, grew up strong and handsome. The fourth child was a girl, whom they called Swanhild. For her, too, the Wanderer appeared, but fleetingly, and thereafter he was not seen for years. Swanhild became very fair to look upon, and of a sweet and merry nature.

Ulrica bore three more children. They were far apart and none lived long. Tharasmund was mostly away from home, fighting, trading, taking counsel with men of worth, leading his Teurings in their common business. Upon his returns he was apt to sleep with Erelieva, the leman he had taken soon after Swanhild’s birth.

She was neither slave nor base-born, but the daughter of a well-to-do yeoman. Indeed, on the distaff side she too descended from Winnithar and Salvalindis. Tharasmund met her while he rode about among the tribesfolk, as was his yearly wont when he was abroad, to hear whatever they had on their minds. He lengthened his stay at that home, and they two were much in each other’s company. Later he sent messengers to ask if she would come to him. They brought rich gifts for her parents, as well as promises of honor for her and bonds between the families. This was no offer to refuse lightly, and the lass was eager, so erelong she went off with Tharasmund’s men.

He kept his word and cherished her. When she bore him a son, Alawin, he gave as lavish a feast as he had done for Hatljawulf and Solbern. She had few further children, and sickness took them away early on, but he did not care for her the less.

Ulrica grew bitter. It was not that Tharasmund kept another woman. Most men who could afford it did that, and he had gone through more than his share. What galled Ulrica was the standing he gave Erelieva—second only to her own in the household, and above it in his heart. She was too proud to start a fight she would be bound to lose, but her feelings were plain. Toward Tharasmund she became cold, even when he sought her bed. This made him do so seldom, and merely in hopes of more offspring.

During his lengthy absences, Ulrica went out of her way to scorn Erelieva and say barbed words about her. The younger woman flushed but bore it quietly. She had won her friends. It was Ulrica the overbearing who grew lonely. Therefore she gave much heed to her sons; they grew closely bound to her.

Withal, they were mettlesome lads, quick to learn everything that beseemed a man, well-liked wherever they fared. They were unlike, Hathawulf the hotter, Solbern the more thoughtful, but fondness linked them. As for their sister Swanhild, all the Teurings—Erelieva and Alawin among them—loved her.

Throughout that time, years passed between visits by the Wanderer, and then they were short. This brought folk still more into awe of him. When his craggy form came striding over the hills, men blew a call on horns, and from Heorot riders galloped forth to greet and escort him. He was even quieter than of yore. It was as if some secret grief weighed upon him, though none dared ask what. This showed most sharply whenever Swanhild passed by in her budding loveliness, or came prideful and atremble if her mother had allowed her to bring the guest his wine, or sat among the other youngsters at his feet while he told tales and uttered wise sayings. Once he sighed to her father, “She is like her great-grandmother.” The hardy warrior shivered a little in his coat. How long had that woman lain dead?

At an earlier guesting the Wanderer showed surprise. Since his last appearance, Erelieva had come to Heorot and had borne her son. Shyly, she brought the babe to show the Elder. He sat unspeaking for many heartbeats before he asked, “What is his name?”

“Alawin, lord,” she answered.

“Alawin!” The Wanderer laid hand over brow. “Alawin?” After another while, almost in a whisper: “But you are Erelieva. Erelieva—Erp—yes, maybe that’s how you’ll be remembered, my dear.” Nobody understood what he meant.

—The years blew by. Throughout, the might of King Ermanaric waxed. Likewise did his greed and cruelty.

When he and Tharasmund were in their fortieth winter, the Wanderer called again. Those who met him were grim of face and curt of speech. Heorot was aswarm with armed men. Tharasmund greeted the guest in a bleak gladness. “Forefather and lord, have you come to our help—you who once drove the Vandals from olden Gothland?”

The Wanderer stood as if graven in stone. “Best you tell me from the beginning what this is about,” he said at last.

“So that we may make it clear in our own heads? But it is. Well… your will be done.” Tharasmund pondered. “Let me send for two more.”

Those proved an odd pair. Liuderis, stout and grizzled, was the chieftain’s trustiest man. He served as steward of Tharasmund’s lands and as captain of fighters when Tharasmund was not there himself. The second was a red-haired youth of fifteen, beardless but strong, with a wrath beyond his years in the green eyes. Tharasmund named him as Randwar, son of Guthric, not a Teuring but a Greutung.

The four withdrew to a loftroom where they could talk unheard. A short winter day was drawing to its close. Lamps gave light to see by and a brazier some warmth, though men sat wrapped in furs and their breath smoked white through gloominess. It was a room richly furnished, with Roman chairs and a table where mother-of-pearl was inlaid. Tapestries hung on walls and carvings were on the shutters across the windows. Servants had brought a flagon of wine and glass goblets from which to drink it. Sounds of the life everywhere around boomed up through an oak floor. Well had the son and the grandson of the Wanderer done for themselves.

Yet Tharasmund scowled, shifted about in his seat, ran fingers through unkempt brown locks and over close-cropped beard, before he could turn to his visitor and rasp: “We ride to the king, five hundred strong. His latest outrage is more than anyone may bear. We will have justice for the slain, or else the red cock shall crow on his roof.”

He meant fire—uprising, war of Goth upon Goth, overthrow and death.

None could tell whether the Wanderer’s face stirred. Shadows did, across the furrows therein, as lamps flickered and murk prowled. “Tell me what he has done,” he said.

Tharasmund nodded stiffly at Randwar. “You tell, lad, as you told us.”

The youth gulped. Fury rose through the bash-fulness he had felt in this presence. Fist smote knee, over and over, while he related roughly:

“Know, lord—though I think you already know—that King Ermanaric had two nephews, Embrica and Fritla. They were sons of a brother of his, Aiulf, who fell in war upon the Angles in the North. Ever did Embrica and Fritla fight well themselves. Here in the South, two years ago, they led a troop eastward against the Alanic allies of the Huns. They bore home a mighty booty, for they had sacked a place where the Huns kept tribute wrung from many a region. Ermanaric heard of it and declared it was his, as king. His nephews said no, for they had carried out that raid on their own. He asked them to come talk the matter over. They did, but first they hid the treasure away. Although he had plighted their safety, Ermanaric had them seized. When they would not tell him where the hoard was, he first had them tortured, then put to death. Thereafter he sent men to scour their lands for it. Those failed; but they ravaged widely about, burned the homes of Aiulf’s sons, cut down their families—to teach obedience, he said. My lord,” Randwar screamed, “was that rightful?”

“It is apt to be the way of kings.” The Wanderer’s tone was like iron given a voice. “What is your part in the business?”

“My… my father was also a son of Aiulf, who died young. My uncle Embrica and his wife raised me. I’d been on a long hunting trip. When I came back, the steading was an ash heap. Folk told me how Ermanaric’s men had had their way with my foster mother before they slit her throat. She… was kin to this house: I sought hither.”

He sank back in his chair, struggled not to sob, tossed off his beaker of wine.

“Aye,” Tharasmund said heavily, “she, Matha-swentha was my cousin. You know that high families often marry across tribal lines. Randwar here is more distant kin to me; nonetheless, we share some of that blood which has been spilt. Also, he knows where the treasure is, sunken beneath the Dnieper. It is well that Weard sent him off just then and so spared him from capture. That gold would buy the king too much might.”

Liuderis shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “After everything I’ve heard, I still don’t. Why does Ermanaric behave thus? Has a fiend possessed him? Or is he only mad?”

“I think he is neither,” Tharasmund said. “I think in some measure his counselor Sibicho—not even a Goth, but a Vandal in his service—Sibicho has hissed evil into his ear. But Ermanaric was always ready to listen, oh, yes.” To the Wanderer: “For years has he been raising the scot we must pay, and calling free-born women to his bed whether they will or no, and otherwise riding roughshod over the folk. I think he means to break the will of those chieftains who have withstood him. If we yield to this latest thing, we will be the readier to yield to the next.”

The Wanderer nodded. “Yes, you’re doubtless right. I would say, besides, that Ermanaric envies the power of the Roman Emperor, and wants the same for himself over the Ostrogoths. Moreover, he hears of Frithigern rising to oppose Athanaric among the Visigoths, and means to scotch any such rival in his kingdom.”

“We ride to demand justice,” Tharasmund said. “He must pay double weregild, and at the Great Moot vow upon the Stone of Tiwaz to abide henceforward by olden law and right. Else I will raise the whole country against him.”

“He has many on his side,” the Wanderer warned: “some for troth given him, some for greed or fear, some who feel you must have a strong king to keep your borders, now when the Huns are gathering themselves together like a snake coiling to strike.”

“Yes, but that king need not be Ermanaric!” blazed from Randwar.

Hope kindled in Tharasmund. “Lord,” he said to the Wanderer, “you who smote the Vandals, will you stand by your kindred again?”

Trouble freighted the answer. “I… cannot fight in your battles. Weard will not have it so.”

Tharasmund was mute for a space. At last he asked, “Will you at least come with us? Surely the king will heed you.”

The Wanderer was wordless longer, until there dragged from him: “Yes, I will see what I can do. But I make no promises. Do you hear me? I make no promises.”

And thus he fared off beside the others, at the head of the band.

Ermanaric kept dwellings throughout the realm. He and his guards, wisemen, servants traveled between them. News was that soon after the killings he had boldly moved to within three days’ ride, of Heorot.

Those were three days of scant cheer. Snow lay in a crust over the lands. It creaked beneath hoofs. The sky was low and flat gray, the air still and raw. Houses huddled under thatch. Trees stood bare, save where firs made a gloom. Nobody said much or sang at all, not even around the campfire before crawling into sleeping bags. But when they saw their goal, Tharasmund winded his horn and they arrived at a full gallop. Cobblestones rang, horses neighed as the Teurings drew rein in the royal courtyard. Guards to about the same number stood ranked before the hall, spearheads agleam though pennons adroop. “We will have speech with your master!” Tharasmund roared.

That was a chosen insult, a word used as if yonder men were not free but kept to heel like hounds or Romans. The captain flushed before he snapped, “A few of you may get leave to enter, but the rest must first pull back.”

“Yes, do,” Tharasmund murmured to Liuderis. The elder warrior growled aloud, “Oh, we will, since we make you troopers uneasy—but not far, nor idle for long before we get knowledge that our leaders are safe from treachery.”

“We have come to talk,” said the Wanderer in haste.

He, Tharasmund, and Randwar dismounted. Doorkeepers stood aside for them and they passed through. More guardsmen filled the benches within. Against common usage, they were armed. At the middle of the east wall, flanked by his courtiers, Ermanaric sat waiting.

He was a big man who bore himself unbendingly. Black locks and spade beard ringed a stern, lined face. In splendor was he attired, golden bands heavy over brow and wrists; flamelight shimmered across the metal. His clothes were of foreign dyed stuffs, trimmed with marten and ermine. In his hand was a wine goblet, not glass but cut crystal; and rubies sparkled on his fingers.

Silent he abided until the three wayworn, mud-splashed newcomers reached his high seat. A time longer did he glower at them before he said, “Well, Tharasmund, you go in unusual company.”

“You know who these are,” answered the Teuring chief, “and what our errand must be.”

A scrawny, ash-pale man on the king’s right, Sibicho the Vandal, whispered in his ear. Ermanaric nodded. “Sit down, then,” he said. “We will drink and eat.”

“No,” Tharasmund told him. “We will take no salt or stoup of you before you have made peace with us.”

“You talk over-boldly, you.”

The Wanderer lifted his spear on high. A hush fell, which made the longfires seem to crackle the louder. “If you are wise, king, you will hear this man out,” he said. “Your land lies bleeding. Wash that wound and bind on herbs ere it swells and sickens.”

Ermanaric met his gaze and replied, “I do not brook mockery, old one. I will listen if he keeps watch on his tongue. Tell me in few words what you want, Tharasmund.”

That was like a slap on the cheek. The Teuring must swallow thrice before he could bark out his demands.

“I thought you would want some such,” Ermanaric said. “Know that Embrica and Fritla fell on their own deeds. They withheld from their king what was rightly his. Thieves and foresworn men are outlaw.

However, I am forgiving. I am willing to pay weregild for their families and holdings… after that hoard has been turned over to me.”

“What?” yelled Randwar. “You dare speak thus, you murderer?”

The guardsmen rumbled. Tharasmund laid a warning hand on the boy’s arm. To Ermanaric he said: “We call for double weregild as an acknowledgment of the wrong you did. No less can we take and still keep our honor. But as for the ownership of the treasure, let the Great Moot decide; and whatever it decides, let all of us handsel peace.”

“I do not haggle,” Ermanaric answered in a frosty voice. “Take my offer and begone—or refuse it and begone, lest I make you sorry for your insolence.”

The Wanderer trod forth. Again he raised his spear to bring silence. The hat shadowed his face, making him twice uncanny to behold; the blue cloak fell from his shoulders like wings. “Hear me,” he said. “The gods are righteous. Whoso flouts the law and grinds down the helpless, him will they bring to doom. Ermanaric, hearken before it is too late. Hearken before your kingdom is rent asunder.”

A mumble and rustle went along the hall. Men stirred, made signs, gripped hafts as though for comfort. Eyeballs rolled white amidst smoke and dimness. This was the Wanderer who spoke.

Sibicho tugged the king’s sleeve and muttered something. Ermanaric nodded. He leaned forward, his forefinger stabbed like a knife, and he said so that it rang back from the rafters:

“You have guested houses of mine erenow, old one. Ill does it become you to threaten me. And unwise you are, whatever children and crones and doddering gaffers may babble of you—unwise you are, if you think I fear you. Yes, they tell that you’re Wodan himself. What care I? I trust in no wispy gods, but in the strength that is mine.”

He sprang to his feet. His sword whirred forth and gleamed aloft. “Do you care to meet me in fight, old gangrel?” he cried. “We can go stake out a ground this very hour. Meet me there, man to man, and I’ll cleave that spear of yours in twain and drive you howling hence!”

The Wanderer did not stir; his weapon shuddered a bit. “Weard will not have that,” he well-nigh whispered. “But I warn you most gravely, for the sake of every Goth, make peace with these men you have aggrieved.”

“I will make peace if they will,” Ermanaric said, grinning. “You have heard my offer, Tharasmund. Do you take it?”

The Teuring braced himself, while Randwar snarled like a wolf at bay, the Wanderer stood as if he were only an idol, and Sibicho leered from the bench. “No,” he croaked. “I cannot.”

“Then go, the lot of you, before I have you whipped back to your kennels.”

At that, Randwar drew blade. Tharasmund and Liuderis snatched for theirs; iron flashed everywhere. The Wanderer said aloud: “We will go, but only for the sake of the Goths. Bethink you again, king, while yet you are a king.”

He urged his companions away. Ermanaric began to laugh. His laughter hounded them down the length of the hall.