Long and heated went the wrangling, both in council and around the booths set up at the field. Here was more than a question of law; it was a matter of whose will should prevail. Ulrica’s words, in the mouths of her sons and their messengers, had convinced enough men that even though Tharasmund was gone—yes, because Tharasmund was gone—best for them would be if the king was chastened.
Not everybody agreed, or dared admit he agreed. Hence the Goths finally voted to split the hoard in three equal shares, one for Ermanaric, one each for the sons of Embrica and Fritla. The king’s men having slain those, the two-thirds fell to Randwar the fosterling. Overnight he became wealthy.
Ermanaric rode livid and mum from the meeting. It was long before anyone got the courage to speak to him. Sibicho was the first. He drew him aside and they talked for hours. What they said, nobody else heard; but thereafter Ermanaric was in a better mood.
When word of this reached Heorot, Randwar muttered that if yonder weasel was happy, it boded ill for all birds. Yet the rest of the year passed quietly.
A strange thing happened in the following summer, which had also been peaceful. The Wanderer appeared on the road from the west, as ever he did. Liuderis led men forth to welcome and escort him. “How fare Tharasmund and his kin?” the newcomer hailed.
“What?” replied Liuderis, astounded. “Tharasmund is dead, lord. Have you forgotten? You yourself were at the grave-ale.”
The Gray One stood leaning on his spear like a man stunned. Suddenly, to the others, the day felt less warm and sunny than before. “Indeed,” he said at last, well-nigh too low to be heard. “I misspoke me.” He shook his shoulders, looked up at the horsemen, and went on louder, faster: “There has been much on my mind. Forgive me, but I find I cannot guest you this time after all. Give them my greetings. I will see you later.” He swung around and strode back the way he had come.
Men stared, wondered, drew signs against evil. A while afterward, a cowherd came home and told that the Wanderer had met him in a meadow and asked him at length about Tharasmund’s death. Nobody knew what any of this portended, though a Christian serving-woman at the hall said it showed how the old gods were failing and fading.
Nonetheless, the sons of Tharasmund received the Wanderer with deference when he returned in the autumn. They did not venture to ask what had been the trouble earlier. For his part, he was more outgoing than erstwhile, and instead of a day or two, he stayed a pair of weeks. Folk marked how much heed he paid to the younger siblings, Swanhild and Alawin.
Of course, it was with Hathawulf and Solbern that he talked in earnest. He urged that either or both fare west next year, as their father had done in his youth. “It will pay you well to get to know the Roman countries, and to cultivate friendship with your kin among the Visigoths,” he said. “I myself can be along to guide, counsel, and interpret.”
“I fear we cannot,” Hathawulf answered heavily. “Not as yet. The Huns wax ever stronger and bolder. They’ve begun reaving our marches again. Little though we like him, we must agree that King Ermanaric is right when he calls for war, come summer; and Solbern and I would not be laggards therein.”
“No,” said his brother, “and not only for honor’s sake. Thus far the king has stayed his hand, but it’s no secret that he loves us not. If we get the name of cowards or sluggards, and then a threat arises, who will dare or care to stand beside us?”
The Wanderer seemed more grieved by this than might have been awaited. Finally he said, “Well, Alawin will be twelve—too young to go with you, but old enough to go with me. Let him.”
They allowed that, and Alawin went wild for joy. Watching him cartwheel over the ground, the Wanderer shook his head and murmured, “How like Jorith he still looks. But then, his descent on both sides is close to her.” Sharply, to Hathawulf: “How well do you and Solbern and he get along?”
“Why, very well indeed,” said the chieftain, taken aback. “He’s a good lad.”
“There is never a quarrel between you and him?”
“Oh, no more than his brashness brings on every once in a while.” Hathawulf stroked his youthfully silky beard. “Yes, our mother has ill will toward him. She was ever one for nursing grudges. But regardless of what some fools babble, she keeps no bridle on her sons. If her rede seems wise to us, we follow it. If not, then not.”
“Cleave fast to the kindness you have for each other.” The Wanderer seemed to plead, rather than advise or command. “Such is all too rare in this world.”
—True to his word, he came back in spring. Hathawulf had furnished Alawin a proper outfit, horses, followers, gold as well as furs to trade. The Wanderer showed forth the precious gifts he carried, which should help win good understanding abroad. Taking his leave, he hugged both brothers and their sister to him.
They stood long watching the caravan trek off. Alawin seemed so small, and his fluttering hair so bright, against the gray and blue that rode at his side. They did not utter the thought that was in them: how yonder sight recalled that Wodan was the god who led away the souls of the dead.
—Yet after a whole year everyone returned safely. Alawin’s limbs were lengthened, his voice deepened, he himself ablaze with what he had seen and heard and done.
Hathawulf and Solbern bore news less heartening. The war against the Huns had not gone well last summer. Always made terrible mounted fighters by their skill and stirrups, the plainsmen had now learned to move under the taut control of canny leadership. They had not overrun the Goths in any of the pitched battles that took place, but they had inflicted heavy losses, and one could not say they had suffered defeat. Gnawed down by sneak attacks, hungry, bootyless, Ermanaric’s host must at length trudge home over the endless grasslands. He would not try afresh this year; he could not.
It was thus a relief to listen to Alawin, evening after evening when folk were gathered over drink. The fabled realms of Rome awakened dreams. Nonetheless, some of what he told brought a frown to the brows of Hathawulf and Solbern, puzzlement to Randwar and Swanhild, an angry sneer to Ulrica. Why had the Wanderer fared as he did?
He had not taken his band first by sea to Constantinople, as with Tharasmund. Instead, he brought them overland to the Visigoths, where they abode for months. They paid their respects to heathen Athanaric, but were more at the court of Christian Frithigern. True, the latter was not only younger but by now had greater numbers at his beck than did the former, even though Athanaric still harried Christians in the parts over which he ruled.
When at last the Wanderer got leave to enter the Empire and crossed the Danube into Moesia, again he lingered among Christian Goths, Ulfilas’ settlement, and encouraged Alawin to make friends here too. Later the group did visit Constantinople, but not for very long. The Wanderer spent much of that time explaining Roman ways to the youth. They went north again late in the autumn, and wintered at Frithigern’s court. The Visigoth wanted them to take baptism, and Alawin might have done so, after the churches and other majesties he had seen along the Golden Horn. In the end he refused, but politely, explaining that he must not set himself at odds with his brothers. Frithigern took that well enough, saying merely, “Let the day be soon when things are otherwise for you.” Come spring, mire having dried in the roads, the Wanderer brought the youngster and their men home. He did not remain there.