Bjorn set out from Britain at the head of two longships, steering southward across the gray and heaving sea until the coast of the Western Franks rose before him—the northern shores of that realm later known as Normandy.
At this time the Carolingian dynasty still ruled those lands. The king was Charles the Bald, grandson of the mighty Charlemagne. After the death of his father, Louis the Pious, the heirs of the great emperor had fallen into strife. In the end, three brothers signed the Treaty of Verdun, dividing Charlemagne's vast inheritance into three portions: West Francia, Middle Francia, and East Francia.
West Francia occupied the heart of what would become modern France; Middle Francia stretched in a narrow strip from the Low Countries down to Italy; East Francia encompassed what we now call Germany, together with parts of Switzerland and Austria.
Compared with the fractured Anglo-Saxon kingdoms across the Channel, the Western Franks were far stronger and better organized. Bjorn, who had not come seeking a hopeless war, avoided prolonged conflict. He led his ships westward along the coast to Brittany, then turned south, following the shoreline until the green estuary of the Garonne River opened before him—the gateway to Bordeaux.
"By Odin's beard," Bjorn would later recall, raising his cup, "the whole land was drowning in vineyards. Every village boasted its own casks, its own proud vintner. I swear to you, the air itself smelled of wine."
He drained two great goblets in memory of that place. Dark wine spilled through his tangled beard and down his chest, leaving him red-stained and content. "Say what you will," he muttered, "but nothing we drink in York today can compare to the wine of Bordeaux. This thin northern swill is fit only for washing wounds."
Tempted by the sweetness of the grape, the Vikings tarried there too long. They prowled the Garonne like wolves in a sheepfold, raiding cellars and seizing barrels, drunk more often than sober. Days blurred into weeks of indulgence—until the local lord, unable to bear their depredations, dispatched mounted knights to drive them out.
Bjorn barely escaped. Forced once more to the sea, he led his men southward along the coast, through waters no Northman had yet dared to chart, until the jagged shores of Asturias rose ahead—the northern kingdom of Spain.
He knew little of that land's long and blood-soaked history.
When the Western Roman Empire had collapsed in the fifth century, the Gothic tribes had swept in to seize Spain, founding the Visigothic Kingdom. Three centuries later, torn by intrigue and civil war, that realm fell prey to the desert peoples the locals called Moors—Arabs and Berbers from across the sea. After seven relentless years of conquest, the Moors had claimed nearly all Iberia, leaving only the northern mountains unconquered.
"They're a suspicious folk," Bjorn told his listeners, "their eyes always watching the horizon. Along their coast, beacon towers stand every few miles. Light one flame, and within an hour a hundred more blaze down the shore. You'll have a small army on you before the day's out."
He was not fool enough to test them. After refilling his barrels with fresh water, Bjorn turned westward again, sailing past the coasts of Portugal, and at last through the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, where the waters of the Atlantic mingle with the blue of the Mediterranean Sea.
There, under a sun far brighter than any in the North, he turned raider once more. Two towns along the North African coast fell to his men—swift, savage attacks that brought gold and slaves. But the victory was short-lived: a flotilla of ten or more galleys gave chase, their oars beating the water like the wings of angry swans. Pursued day and night, Bjorn fled north along Spain's eastern coast, doubling back through treacherous shallows until he reached the southern lands of the Franks again. There he found brief refuge and time to mend his battered ships.
But peace breeds mutiny.
The voyage had brought little plunder and heavy loss. Men grumbled that the gods had turned their backs on Bjorn. Words turned to threats, threats to drawn blades, until Bjorn was forced to defend his honor in single combat against one of his own crew. He won—barely—but the scar it left on the band was deep.
Still, he would not turn home empty-handed. Once the ships were seaworthy, he led his dwindling force eastward into the northern Mediterranean, raiding what settlements he could. Montpellier, Marseille, Cannes—each yielded a few spoils, a few corpses, and nothing like the treasure he had hoped for.
Then one morning, after a week of drifting through calm seas, white marble walls rose before them—a city gleaming in the sun.
"Rome," someone breathed.
"Wait," Rurik interrupted when Bjorn reached this point in his tale. "You're certain it was Rome?"
Bjorn's gaze wavered. "Well… I think so. Or perhaps I only thought so. It looked like the sort of place Rome ought to be."
He shrugged, unbothered by his own uncertainty. Whatever its name, the Vikings stormed its harbor district, looting warehouses and burning ships. Fortune favored them for once: among the spoils they seized great bundles of spices from the East—cinnamon, clove, and saffron. But victory had drawn too many enemies. With only thirty men left alive, Bjorn at last heeded their pleas to turn back.
They sailed again through the Strait of Gibraltar under cover of night, passed the green headlands of Portugal, and—by some miracle—made landfall in Britain without further pursuit.
This, Rurik noted, was a humbler version of the story Bjorn had once shouted to admiring crowds. Gone were the sea giants and monstrous serpents, the captured kings and lovesick princesses. In their place stood the weary truth: years of hunger, fear, and endless flight; nights without sleep; constant peril. Out of ninety-two men who had left York, only twenty-eight returned.
Rurik sighed, swirling the dregs in his cup. "Riches indeed—but dearly bought."
Bjorn nodded heavily. "Aye. The sea gives, and the sea devours. I've no wish to tempt it again so soon. Enough of my tales. You promised to speak now of Jotunheim."
"As you wish." Rurik leaned forward, poured a little wine onto the tabletop, and with his fingertip traced the curve of a coast.
"This is Bergen," he said. "From there, sail west to the Shetland Islands, then farther still to the Faroe Islands. Some of our folk already dwell there; you may take on provisions one last time. Beyond that lies open sea. If Odin blesses your voyage, you'll sight an island larger than Ireland—cold, barren, yet habitable.
"Do not let the sagas fool you. It is no realm of ice giants. It belongs to the mortal world. But it's a hard land, poor in soil, rich only in wind and stone. Farming will feed few mouths. You'll live by herding and by fishing—or not at all."
Bjorn frowned. "And what of minerals? Gold, silver, copper—iron, perhaps?"
"How should I know?" Rurik laughed. "I've never set foot there. If I had maps of its ore veins, I'd have gone myself long ago."
Their talk dwindled. For a while they sat in silence, drinking from their horns. Then Rurik's gaze drifted to the corner of the hall, where a cluster of Berber captives knelt in chains.
"Do any of them know shipbuilding?" he asked.
Bjorn's face brightened. "Five were shipwrights," he said, "and two once sailed as far as India. It was from them I learned the arts of navigation."
He reached into his cloak and drew out two curious instruments—a brass astrolabe and a wooden quadrant—and showed Rurik how they worked.
"By the height of the sun or the North Star," he explained, "you can know your latitude. The Berbers taught me their craft as well: how to stitch planks with coconut fiber or palm rope instead of nailing them; how to rig triangular lateen sails that catch the wind from any quarter, even head-on."
He set the tools on the table, their metal gleaming in the lamplight, relics of a knowledge born beneath a hotter sun.
Thus ended Bjorn's tale of the ocean—of tempests and thirst, of the lands of wine and marble, of the strange wisdom of men who charted the stars.
And though his voice fell silent, the sound of the sea seemed still to echo in the hall, as if the waves themselves lingered in his blood.