Legends Never Die: The Eternal City (ch. 142)

The Romans weren't oblivious to their approach. Rome itself wasn't located on the coast, though it was close. Hjalmar was sure that Charlemagne or Irene would have at least a few spies scattered about the islands to keep informed of Hoffer's comings and goings. Hoffer had moved quickly, but gathering up an army fifty thousand strong took time. And while they immediately set out after the proclamation, the Romans had prepared for the worst. 

They arrived onshore, securing a beach head in the form of a small coastal village that they immediately began to fortify. It had been completely abandoned. As were the villages on the peripheries of Rome, some abandoning their village in the middle of a meal or chore based on some of what he saw. It was easy enough to track where they were going, and the old saying rang with some truth. 

“All roads lead to Rome,” Hjalmar said, looking up at the famed city. It was… impressive, and all he could see were the walls. Predictably, the gates were shut to them, and he saw men lining those walls with bows. They had likely been preparing for a siege for years now, and Hjalmar felt down to his bones that taking the city would be no small feat. 

“How many do you think are in there?” Tryim questioned, flicking a berry into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Enough to beat us?” 

“Enough to make it painful, I think,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder to see the camp was being set up while tools of siegecraft were being constructed -- ladders, rams, and perhaps a siege tower or two. There was a gnawing concern in the back of his mind as he looked at it all, feeling the pressure. 

It took time for word to travel, but it would. Charlemagne couldn't let this stand. Irene couldn't let this stand. If they weren't already marshaling their armies, then they would soon, which left them with… what? Six months to siege the city down before either arrived, if that? They would come in force with tens of thousands… 

One thing was for certain -- if he had to face such an army, then he'd prefer to do so behind a large wall. 

Thankfully, he wasn't the only one that had that concern. 

“We shall divide the army into four parts,” King Hoffer informed them of the plan in his command tent as the various commanders were in attendance. “Twenty thousand men shall stay here, at Rome, to continue the siege but the other three parts? They shall be divided into three armies of ten thousand each.” 

There was a thrum of excitement, all knowing what that meant. King Hoffer raised a hand to quiet them down, “Aye. Those three armies will have a task -- they are to scour the land North and South of Rome. I mean more than just raiding and looting,” he pressed on, stressing the importance of it as he looked between all their faces. “Charlemagne will come from the Alps, and to do so with any swiftness, his baggage train will need to be light. An army marches on their stomach and I intend to feed them nothing.” 

The good cheer had started to take a turn. Most didn't care about the specifics of it. Others, like him, found themselves… dissatisfied with the approach. But he could offer no alternative so any protest died on his tongue. 

“Every village between Rome and the Alps? I want them burnt and ransacked -- their harvests burnt, their animals slaughtered, and wells poisoned. Direct the survivors to towns, and let them eat through whatever reserves that they have. Should the towns refuse to feed them, then that will only heighten unrest and that will make taking those towns that much easier.” King Hoffer instructed, a weight to his tone that told Hjalmar he understood what he was saying. The implication and consequences. “The same will be done to the South down to our controlled territories. Stockpiles of food and moving our people to secure areas -- we must prepare for an attack on both sides.” 

In a more disciplined army, there would be greater concerns. He saw it during the Conquest. Logistics, morale, establishing milestone goals to gauge if they were on the right path to their ultimate destination. But these men, the vast majority of them, were mercenaries. It didn't matter if they came from Rome, the Abbasids, or Scandinavia. Unlike Siegfried, they came to this land to become rich and that was all that they cared about. 

“What about thralls?” A commander questioned from the back, eager to bleed a stone for every drop of gold. 

“Take the prettiest, the strongest, and the children. We don't have the support or food to send every lowborn in Italia to the markets,” King Hoffer answered easily, and it was becoming increasingly clear that this invasion was no less prepared than Siegfried's. “Highborn will be taken as hostages, but given the mess that we will make of things, I imagine that quite a few of them won't be able to pay their ransoms. Whatever happens then will be decided by their captor, and should I have need of them in negotiations, I will purchase their captivity. At a discount.” 

“How will we decide who goes raiding and who stays for the siege?” Another commander asked, and his tone made it clear what position he hoped to receive. 

“Volunteers and lots,” Hoffer answered. “Those left behind besieging Rome won't be left destitute. A portion of all the incomes of those that raid will be set aside for them, and once we take the city, they will receive a higher share of the spoils.” Not everyone was happy about that, but none of them fought it either as it meant even if they were stuck besieging Rome, they wouldn't miss out on the chance to grow rich. 

“Who would volunteer for this duty?” King Hoffer questioned, looking around. Hjalmar didn't waste any time raising a hand up, much to the amusement of his fellows. 

“Afraid of a fight, Hjalmar?” A familiar commander called out. Hrólfr, one of the newer arrivals that came from the last batch of hot blood from Scandinavia. 

“I never turn down easy money,” Hjalmar corrected before he tossed him a smile. “Why do you think I always play dice with you?” 

That earned a few laughs, and Hrólfr laughed along with them but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His pride was a fragile one, Hjalmar knew. He saw himself as destined for great things, yet he missed out at a chance of eternal glory and renown by not participating in the conquest. By the time he arrived in the Mediterranean, most of the fighting to restore Bulgaria was done. Hrólfr, and many like him, were so eager to prove themselves. Eager for easy wealth. 

It made them reckless and Hjalmar had no intention of getting swept up in whatever mess they caused. 

“Good,” King Hoffer said, approaching and clapping Hjalmar on the shoulder. It felt a bit like what he imagined getting swiped by a bear would feel like. “Good! The siege will require a steady hand and discipline. Ulfar,” he continued, looking to at his companion, “You shall command the forces to the South.” 

“Of course, King Hoffer,” Ulfar agreed readily with a curt nod. 

King Hoffer moved on, and as he did, they shared a glance. Commanding a siege would put twenty thousand men under his influence while Ulfar would command ten thousand. Provided that everything went well, that would put them in a position to tempt some men back to Scandinavia this time next year. 

Only it wouldn't go well. 

Hjalmar knew it and Ulfar knew it based on the unspoken message in his eyes. 

They weren't sure what would likely go wrong… but Hjalmar was willing to bet that it would have something to do with the fact that they would try to leave with some of the army while King Hoffer was using it. 

…

Conducting a siege was pretty boring work. Dull. Monotonous. The army he commanded, along with a few others to help lighten the burden, had completely surrounded Rome. They built the ladders and rams a month ago, and after two months, the siege towers were complete. They made no attempts to assault the city, and the Romans inside made no attempt to sally out to destroy their equipment, even when they left it in vulnerable places. 

That told Hjalmar that the forces in Rome weren't plentiful enough that they felt like they could afford to spend the men to delay an assault. Which suited him just fine. 

Once a month, the commander of the Roman garrison would essentially call a parley to tell him he was going to Hell, he should repent, and that he should leave these lands. Hjalmar just shrugged his shoulders through those meetings, knowing that they were pointless as King Hoffer made it clear in no uncertain terms -- they would take the city, and accept nothing less. 

The siege was so boring that he had the men drilling and working out, much like they did back in the training grounds in Scandinavia. It put a stop to the idle hands finding mischief and too much boredom setting in. It also stopped them from getting too flabby because they were eating good during the siege. 

Hoffer, naturally, commanded the forces that went North. The other commanders really should have seen that coming. Under his command, there was a steady stream of food, wealth, and thralls sent to the siege for safekeeping. He hadn't seen it himself, but based on the sheer amount of food coming their way, Hoffer wasn't moving on until the last grain of wheat was picked from a field. Their pantries were overflowing to the point that they could feast every day just to put a dent in it. 

The wealth and thralls, however, were stockpiled for a time at the camp before being sent to the fishing village turned naval base before they were taken to Sardinia. And even with his stipulations on the amount of thralls taken, thousands must have been sent to his kingdom's markets in the first three months alone. By the fourth month and the changing of the season, things began to slow. Wealth and goods came in bursts, usually accompanied with word of a victory somewhere or another. 

Hjalmar was content with his situation. While the wealth gathered would be spread pretty thinly between twenty thousand men, he was making headway into working over the other commanders and their men. He had absolutely no idea how many of them would be willing to follow him back North, but even if it was only a few thousand, he'd call that a win. 

So, as the siege entered its fifth month, he was feeling comfortable. He wasn't sure why the Allvaldr detested them so much. Unlike the constant marching and battles of the conquest, things settled into a routine -- wake, eat, drill, wash, eat again, then sleep. Over and over and over again. 

At least, that's how it felt until that routine was suddenly disrupted. 

“Lord Hjalmar! Lord Hjalmar! We have a prisoner!” A voice called out in the middle of a dice game, causing Hjalmar to look up from the board and dice that were almost certainly weighed to counter his cheating. A second later, two men were dragging in a bewildered third who seemed to live in mud based on how it was caked upon him. 

“So I see,” Hjalmar replied, deliberately raising an eyebrow. “And what makes this prisoner so important?” 

“We caught him escaping the city, lord. We followed his tracks… and we think we found a way into the city!” They proclaimed, and in an instant, everyone's attention shifted from mild interest to fully alert. He was no different. 

“Where?” He asked sharply, and while the prisoner was forced to kneel, he said something but Hjalmar had no idea what it was. The language of the Romans, perhaps. 

“To the west of the city. There is an old aqueduct that must have fallen out of use hundreds of years ago. Dry as an old bone for the most part. But there are places that they flow underground and into the city,” the man began and now that Hjalmar got a better look at him, he recognized him as Áleifr. One of the more promising new blood that came from the North. 

Hjalmar nodded slowly, “Aye, I'm aware. So are the Romans, and that's why those aqueducts are barred if not filled up.” 

“We think that some of them have gotten desperate and unblocked one,” Áleifr answered. “I had a man enter the tunnel -- it's not big. A man can walk it hunched over a bit, but it's narrow enough that they'd have to walk in a single line. And from a guess, it's about a mile walk into the city.” A mile in a confined space and into a potential trap? That'd be a hard sell for a lot of men, meaning that they would have to make the prize worth it. 

Hjalmar looked at the man beneath the mud. He was bone thin and haggard. He probably hadn't had a good meal even before the siege. “Have him cleaned, give him a meal, and find someone who speaks his language. Promise him a reward for any information he can give about what is going on inside the city.” 

Áleifr nodded, “Will we take it?” There was an eagerness there. 

Caution and ambition warred in his chest, but it would be a lie to say it was an even battle. 

“Depending what he says will decide our approach,” Hjalmar answered, much to the men's enthusiasm. They heard what they wanted to hear -- yes, they would take the city and all of the riches in it. “If he was working alone? If the entrance to the city is unguarded and unnoticed? I would like to send as many men as possible into the city beforehand and have them open the gates for us. If not? Then we shall coordinate an attack on a weaker gate.” 

It was a risk, but not a dangerous one. Not truly. If this was a trap, then they would lose a hundred men. Perhaps two. The attack on the wall would be repulsed, and that would lower morale for a time. But, soon enough, things would go back to normal and the siege would continue. 

If the attack succeeded, however? 

Then under his command, Rome would be taken. The men under his command would grow rich, and that was a very powerful argument for when it came time to return North. His own standing would increase as well -- someone might even raise a Runestone. A practice that always felt a touch absurd when he was a common soldier, but now that he was a commander? It felt different. 

Just as joining the army had changed the trajectory of his life, it felt like Rome was a fork in the road that could have the Norns spinning the thread of his life one way or another. 

The others felt the same as the camp suddenly took on a renewed sense of purpose, moving with an urgency that had been lacking for months now. The prisoner was revealed to be a beggar, and his description of life inside Rome was promising. The city was barely populated for its size -- fifty thousand people was a lot, but quite small in a city built to house a million. Which meant that there were entire swaths of the city left completely abandoned. 

Militarily, the resistance was both better and worse than what Hjalmar feared. Allegedly there were fifteen thousand soldiers inside the city, but they were broken up between various factions. Five thousand was the standing garrison that Charlemagne had placed in Rome, another three thousand came from the Romans, while the rest were house guards and warriors sworn to the Church. And, apparently, none of them could agree on what to do about the army camped outside of their walls. 

Disease had swept through the city, largely due to the fact that the pox ridden often traveled to Rome in search of a cure or miracle. They had enough food, so starvation hadn't set in yet, but they had started tightening the belt, which made the poorest of the city look to escape. He claimed that no one had helped him, but he did admit that his idea of escaping through the aqueduct tunnels was not an original one. 

Meaning that it was only a matter of time before the entrance was discovered -- if not because they found it, but because word would spread to the high born in the city and they would take action. 

A day later, the camp came alive and he could see it on the walls that the Romans were panicking, unsure what had changed. They barked challenges on the walls, but they did little good since Hjalmar couldn't understand a word that they were saying. That didn't stop the men from shouting challenges back with a few rude gestures. 

The rams and siege towers were rolled to the front line, wooden barricades were pushed up to offer the archers on the ground some cover, while men gathered up in groups to carry the long ladders. A detachment of two hundred men were sent into the aqueduct tunnel during the night, and thus far, they hadn't raised the signal to indicate that they had been noticed or it was a trap. Meaning that they were in position or they were dead. 

One way to find out. 

Hjalmar took in a slow deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs before he pressed his lips to a horn. It bellowed loudly, reaching others that echoed the sound, and with it, the assault began. 

Archers rushed forward, planting down their cover and shooting up at the archers on the walls, rams started to roll towards the various gates of Rome, while siege towers creaked forward. In an instant, the tranquil morning became controlled chaos as arrows found their mark, men shouting in pain or barking orders. The chaos was found on both sides of the walls because he could see the Romans moving with a manic fear as they tried to drive off the attack. 

Yet, Hjalmar held back most of his forces. The plan wasn't to assault the walls with them. The cost in men would be too high, and worse, unneeded. Yet, he had them form up for the threat of them -- it forced the Romans to spread themselves thin to repulse attacks happening around the city, and that in turn would make it- 

“It's happening,” Hjalmar saw, less than thirty minutes before the assault began. A trail of green smoke was left in the wake of an arrow at the eastern gate. “Ironclads! Go! Go!” He shouted the order, caught off guard at how swiftly it happened as he drove his horse towards the eastern gate.

He arrived just in time to see it swing open, the two hundred bloody men welcoming a thousand ironclads into Rome. His heart was hammering at his ribs, watching them go, which spurned others nearby to enter but he was quick to cut that off. “The gate! How'd the gate!” He ordered, riding close to see that it had been a slaughter. “What resistance did you face?” 

“Hardly a thing, Lord! A couple dozen men,” one of his warriors answered. “Some escaped and sent a runner, so reinforcements could be coming.” 

“I doubt that -- they're going to be too busy,” Hjalmar remarked. “Hold the gate until the army breaks in the others. It shouldn't be long,” he ordered and earned a nod before he rode back. The Romans on the wall were falling back, he saw. Some were ignorant of what transpired, but word reached others as he saw them rapidly pull back from the walls. As he did, he barked orders for the ladder assault to commence, ensuring that they took the city. 

By the time he arrived at his command tent, he was assaulted by messengers delivering good news. Another gate had fallen open and men were streaming into the city. Within fifteen minutes, another gate had fallen and the fight for the walls was practically over. 

A knot uncoiled around his heart, realizing that Rome had fallen. As more and more men rushed into the city, he gave the order for an all out assault to seize it in its entirety before he and his fellows rose underneath the opened gates to see… 

“... Oh,” Hjalmar uttered, a lump suddenly forming in his throat. The sight of Rome was an incredible one, and he understood the comparisons between it and Miklagard now. The Allvaldr had certainly been inspired by it and Constantinople. But that wasn't what brought him up so short. 

The Conquest had been disciplined in a way that he didn't appreciate until this moment. When they took a stronghold or a village, everything was… structure. Organized. There was a process of gathering spoils that had the people gathered up, watched, but unharmed. Then those to be taken as thralls to be resettled elsewhere would be clamped in chains and sent off. Any unnecessary harm done to the people was punished severely with punishments starting at flogging and ending with death. 

Hjalmar never really thought about it before until this moment -- how much discipline it took to control such an army so completely. It didn't really occur to him until this moment as he witnessed the absence of that discipline. 

The streets of Rome were a madhouse. He heard people screaming, sounds of clashes, but as he rode deeper, he saw that they weren’t just against the Romans. He saw men belonging to his army fighting in the streets over choice spoils, with one victor being decided with a thrust, leaving the winner to take the spoils and start digging through the pockets of the man he just killed. 

“Gods,” Hjalmar swore, the reality of it settling on his shoulders. “They're wolves in a chicken coop.” 

It was disorderly. It was chaos. In the hour they had been in the city, they had probably lost more men than they had when they took it. He should have expected this, in hindsight. The army was composed of mercenaries. It was dangling a juicy steak in front of a hungry wolf, and without discipline or structure, they gorged themselves like a beast rather than eat like a man. 

“Have our men secure the streets. March in groups. Damn it all -- there are Roman soldiers still in this damn city!” Hjalmar snapped, sending out messengers, but he knew it deep in his guts that it was far too late to put a lid on the chaos. The only chance he had was if he established discipline over the army before they took the city. “We act as warriors, not animals. Find a building and secure it. Gather what wealth we find there to be divided, as is our way.” 

During the meantime, he tried establishing what control of the rampaging army that he could, but it was going poorly. It was only by high noon that he managed to learn that what was left of the Roman army had pulled back to an important church belonging to their god and pope. Everything outside of it had been abandoned and the people felt it. 

The sack went on, lasting all afternoon, and by the time he managed to get ahold of the other commanders to stop their people from killing each other in the streets, he was exhausted down to the bones. Hjalmar half stumbled into the building his men had chosen as a stronghold, which revealed itself to be a church. 

He walked down the aisle, the pews moved aside to gather the loot, but there was one intact near the front, before the altar. With a sigh, Hjalmar sat heavily on it, taking off his helmet and glancing up at the man on the cross. The dead god's stare felt particularly judging, so he offered him a shrug. 

“For what it's worth… sorry,” he apologized, not quite sure what he was apologizing for. Only that it felt like he had failed somehow. 

“God grants forgiveness to all those who ask,” A voice informed before Hjalmar felt a prick at his neck. “However, redemption must be earned through labor.” 

Hjalmar sat still, keenly aware of the knife at his throat as he glanced from the corner of his eye to find a man dressed in simple robes and wearing a simple wooden cross. It almost seemed out of place amongst the splendor of the church. And seeing as his throat hadn't been slit for the glance, he craned his head back to see the man behind him. 

His eye was blackened, a lip was busted, yet he smiled with a grandfatherly kindness that almost made him forget about the knife at his throat. Or that he spoke Norse. 

“My name is Otto, a bishop of the church. Though, that is a matter of some debate these days,” he informed with a chuckle to Hjalmar's growing bafflement. “I do apologize for the inconvenience, but I will be taking you hostage for a brief period of time. I hope you don't mind.” 

Huh. 

What a strange priest.