Legends Never Die: Give and Take (ch. 143)

“If you're looking for a ransom, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere. These beasts are more likely to pay you to kill me than they are for my release,” Hjalmar remarked, swallowing a lump in his throat while the name scratched at something in the back of his mind. Otto. He knew that name. But from where? 

“It is not gold that I seek, but something infinitely more precious. Life,” Otto answered, and the more Hjalmar looked at the man, the worse he seemed. The bruising on his face indicated not just a recent beating, but several over a long period of time. His wrists were scraped raw, with scabs that had dried over in some places but were fresh in others. His clothing was stained, and it was an honest wonder that Hjalmar hadn't smelled him coming. “Not for myself, but for a flock that has fallen under my protection.” 

“From whatever prison you escaped from?” He guessed, and as he did, his men finally took notice of the fact that they had an unexpected guest in the middle of their looting. However, Hjalmar held up a hand to stave off any attempts at heroism that would likely get him killed. Because, for as battered of a man the bishop was, his hand was steady. Otto, for his part, offered a pained smile but an honest one. 

“A few of them, but I speak more for the people of Rome. The beggars, prostitutes, and thieves who have nothing for you to take but their lives and freedom. The civilians who have not raised a hand against you. Women and children.” Otto implored, unbothered by the fact that he was surrounded. The bishop had a spine in him, that much Hjalmar was willing to concede. Braver than him, certainly. 

“I'm a pagan, by your people's tongue. A Norse barbarian. What are the sufferings of your people to me?” Hjalmar bluffed, turning over the demand in his head for a moment, but stopped when Otto laughed. 

“Because you remind me of a Norseman I tutored once. He took no pleasure in needless slaughter either,” Otto answered, and with that, the pieces clicked together. 

“Bishop Otto,” Hjalmar realized. “The same who taught the Allvaldr?” 

Otto seemed pleased, “Siegfried? Yes, that would be me. I hadn't thought I would be worth a mention in his Saga.” 

That made the half dozen men surrounding them trade a glance before they lowered their weapons on instinct, and Hjalmar wasn't sure if he should be offended or not. He had no desire to slay the Allvaldr's priest, but he desired death even less. Still, now that he knew who he was dealing with, he had questions. As far as the stories went, Otto enjoyed the favor of Charlemagne, now Roman Emperor. Yet he was here in Rome looking like a beaten dog. 

“What aid I could give is limited,” Hjalmar spoke slowly. “I commanded the siege, but not the army that has taken the city. If I did, then this place wouldn't be a place of madness.” 

“I believe you,” Otto replied with frank sincerity. “I do not ask that you turn upon your own men or betray your people. I ask that you do what you can for those that pose no threat to you and have done you no wrong.” 

Hjalmar was already putting a plan together. It wouldn't be popular, but few would really care if they heard about it. All the more so if they secured the prisoners worth ransoming -- the bishops, priests, and pope. That, and so long as everyone felt like they were enriched by the sacking of Rome, they wouldn't care too much about the copper bits that slipped between their fingers. 

“... How many?” Hjalmar asked, pretending that he was thinking about it more, but the priest saw right through him. Otto smiled and withdrew the dagger, acting as if the deal was struck. And, somewhat irritatingly, he was right to. 

“Does it matter?” Otto asked, and Hjalmar sighed as he stood up. 

“I suppose not,” he admitted. “We'll get you out of the city. I can't promise you anything more than that.” 

“It is more than enough," Otto replied. “Might I know your name?” 

“Hjalmar,” he answered, making Otto's brow furrow. He understood why he was puzzled. “I don't have a father whose blood is worth claiming,” he dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand before turning to the assembled others. “Get the priest food and drink. Prepare a hundred men to escort them out of the city -- I don't trust the others not to pounce with anything less.” 

They nodded and started organizing the escort by dragging in those who were bringing in loot. It wouldn't take long for word to spread as soldiers were no better than fish wives when it came to gossip. To that end, he looked back to Otto, “Where are the lot of you held up?” 

He felt like there should be some hesitation in Otto. Some kind of doubt. The man appeared from thin air, held a knife to his throat, and just… believed him when he agreed to help. He wanted to call it foolish but struggled to because… well, he was right and Hjalmar was going to help. That felt like it undercut any argument he could offer when Otto gestured for him to follow him towards a wall… 

That promptly swung open when Otto pulled on a candle holder. 

“Huh,” Hjalmar muttered, looking off in the darkness of the tunnel. “Where does this lead?” 

“Almost anywhere in the city,” Otto answered. “Many of the churches started as villas, and most possessed secret passageways in the case of an emergency. The vast majority of them are connected to the sewers under Rome. Including its prisons.” 

“Such as the one you were held in?” He prodded, though Otto shook his head. 

“Oh, no. The one I was held in was far more secure,” he started before he tilted his head, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Well, not so secure to stop my escape. I had almost escaped Rome entirely before your army arrived,” he informed and, for some reason, Hjalmar felt vaguely guilty. 

Still, that confirmed it. “Do I even want to know why you were imprisoned?” 

Otto laughed lightly. It was a raspy sound that gave away that he wasn't quite as strong as he pretended to be. “A difference of opinions,” was all that he said, seemingly feeling no need to elaborate. Which was fair. Hjalmar didn't have any particular interests in the affairs of Christians. 

With that, they descended into the network of tunnels that Otto seemed very familiar with. He had braced himself for a horrid stench when the word sewers was mentioned, but it was no worse than the rest of the city when they descended. Like so much of Rome, the sewers were neglected and seemed outright forgotten. They walked by ancient barricades erected hundreds of years ago, with many of the tunnels having collapsed, while others showed signs of frequent use. 

As they walked, Hjalmar kept track of where they were in the city. Or at least kept a best guest. And it was as he did that an idea started to form in the back of his head. However, it was set aside when they moved through a smuggling tunnel. 

Even before Hjalmar saw them, he heard them. Noise traveled in the tunnels, and the soft whispers of dozens became the same as speaking normally. They hushed down when the sound of his footsteps and chainmail drew near, with Otto approaching first. 

Otto said something in a language that Hjalmar didn't understand, but it sounded vaguely Latin. There was a pause before he spoke again more urgently, causing people to emerge from the tunnels. Hjalmar saw sickly women clutching babies to their chests, or holding the hands of small frightened children. There were young men, the infirm, the old -- dozens of them. Perhaps as many as a hundred or more. They eyed him with barely concealed terror, and the only reason why they weren't attacking or fleeing was because Otto was speaking soothingly to them. 

One man near Hjalmar's size with a bushy wild beard that looked like an animal had climbed on his face before promptly dying spoke back to Otto, his tone vaguely challenging. Otto said something back and whatever it was, it did the trick. Then Otto turned to him, “This is all of us.” 

“Alright then,” Hjalmar replied, feeling somewhat put out by the hostile looks he was getting. They were understandable, of course. He would be rather wroth if strangers besieged and then sacked his home as well. But the sight of them got to him more -- they were pitiful. Half starved and they looked like they hadn't even seen the sun in days. 

Something that was swiftly confirmed when he saw them step outside after making their way through the winding tunnels. They squinted up at the sky, barely able to see, and deathly pale. By the time they returned, an escort force had been formed. “Give them some supplies. No point in helping them if they die outside our doorstep,” Hjalmar reasoned, seizing a few wagons and horses from the siege camp. Everyone was swiftly loaded up, and escorted to one of the gates with little difficulty. 

The sacking of Rome was ongoing, but even as allies warred in the streets, the size of their detachment warded off those that were tempted to attack. The people in the wagons flinched at every sound, most weeping at the sight of the violence and what befell their city. Others muttered under their breaths, and he didn't need to speak their language to know what they meant. 

“God be with you, Hjalmar,” Otto said as they arrived at the gate. 

“Didn't do it for a god,” Hjalmar replied, looking back at Rome. The blood in the streets and the pillars of smoke rising up. “Just… balancing the scales a little bit. No more than that.” 

Otto's eyes shone with a compassion that Hjalmar wasn't entirely comfortable with. But then he laughed, "Perhaps it is simply God's plan. Every time I find myself under threat of pagans, they turn out to be quite reasonable people.” 

Hjalmar snorted, “I don't recall myself doing any threatening.” They shared a quick laugh before Hjalmar inclined his head to the strange priest. “Be well, Otto. The lot of you.” 

“And you, Hjalmar,” Otto offered an arm to be clasped, and Hjalmar did with only a beat of hesitation. And with that, the refugees began to depart and Hjalmar watched them go, feeling a bit lighter than he had before. 

“Make sure they get a good distance away from Rome,” Hjalmar ordered a warrior, thumping him on the shoulder as he turned around to head back into the city. “As for the rest of you… I want you down in those tunnels. Let's see if we have a way behind those villa walls,” he said, that weight returning to settle heavily on his shoulders. 

That sent the men off, eager for further spoils and the chance to win the real prizes of the sack. 

Hjalmar returned to the church, and once his base was established, it let him get in contact with various other leaders within the army now that they knew where to find him. Most, however, didn't. They chose to rampage through the late afternoon and night that followed, with things only starting to settle by the early morning the next day. 

Messengers were dispatched across the city to reign in the various bands of mercenaries. Most were drunk, nursing their losses, or fighting out spats on the streets, but by the second afternoon, Hjalmar was able to exert some control over his army again. Even if that grip felt weak because as the commanders assembled, there were immediate accusations of murder and theft being slung around. The mess was so bad that Hjalmar couldn't even find out what their losses were, only that he had been right -- they had lost more men sacking the city than taking it. 

But he also learned where there was still resistance inside of the city. A handful of scattered villas belonging to the noble families inside of Rome or rich merchants. The main concentration of resistance was in a church district around where the Pope lived and did whatever a pope did -- ritual sacrifices, communion with his God, and whatever other priestly duties. 

It wasn't quite a citadel, but the walls around the district made it something of a city within a city. Numbers were hard to grasp, but even if half of the warriors had withdrawn to that district, then they had more than enough strength to make attacking painful.

And as much time was wasted getting the army back in order, it did let him summon the commanders with a plan. 

“My men have found a way into the priest district,” he informed a handful of men. Barely a third of the leaders that he had previously commanded. Half couldn’t be found and the other half were dragging their feet, too busy looting and pillaging to take orders. But that mattered little. By his own account, he had around ten thousand men, and that was enough to enact his plan. 

Let the others realize what they missed out on after they heard the tales of the spoils. Maybe that would be enough to make them think twice about abandoning all sense of discipline the moment the chance of wealth entered their field of view.

The commanders that were in attendance immediately straightened in the church pews they sat in. They understood the worth of such a prize, and Hjalmar was under no delusions that was why they were willing to listen to him -- they wanted in that district, and he had the largest faction of men within what had been a unified army. 

“It's more or less the same plan as before -- we have men slip through the tunnels while a force attacks the walls. However, we have to assume that the Christians will have wisened up, and that they will post guards around the known entrances into the sewers. Rather than a feint at the walls, it will be a concentrated attack while we push through the sewers.” He began, earning a few nods. “It's going to be a fight, but it's one that we can win. But, to do it… all of the loot taken needs to be moved here-” 

Hjalmar raised a hand to forestall the immediate protest and continued in a louder voice, “It will reduce the rear guard needed to ensure we aren't attacked in our rear by our allies. I know none of you want to come back to your strongholds to find them empty and the men left there dead. Instead, we gather all of it in one place that has been fortified, and we leave a rear guard of two hundred men to guard it all. When the day is won, all will be returned to its… heh, rightful owners.” 

He hadn't realized how absurd of a sentence that was until he was halfway through it, and the jest was enough to solicit a few laughs and chuckles. There was some resistance to the idea, but it melted away when none could offer a better alternative. Their resistance relented, and another half day was lost just moving the loot to the church that served as their stronghold. 

It was near dusk by the time that they were finally ready to commence the attack, and Hjalmar almost called it off until the morning. Just so that the men would be rested and maybe by then, the other half of the army would settle down. But, as the sun started to fall, he gave the order to attack simply because he didn't want to give the Christians any more time to gather their own strength or realize just how divided they were.

A horn blew through the air, and his men began running forward with ladders and rams. The Christians on the walls, which were not so impressive compared to the city walls, still had an advantage in height. They shot down with their crossbows, used spears and pitchforks to push the ladders back, all the while they threw burning pitch on top of a ram pushing its way towards the gate of the district. 

The wall marked the difference between him and the Allvaldr. If the Allvaldr was here, then the wall wouldn't even be fit to be called an obstacle. It would have fallen by the time that he reached the top of a ladder. But, for him, the wall was a sturdy barricade that showed no signs of falling even as men reached the top of the walls and started pushing themselves on top of them. 

The assault was aided by the archers he placed on the tops of buildings near the walls, which gave them a height advantage. That advantage was lessened by the Christians placing archers atop nearby churches. They traded arrows and roof tiles if they could, turning the battlefield into a place of absolute chaos. The one uncontested advantage that they did have was that the walls around the district weren’t just shorter, they also weren’t as wide, which allowed fewer men to fight upon them. 

It didn’t take too long for them to secure a foothold on the walls, and from there, his ironclads moved in to make sure they kept that foothold. A give and take appeared on the walls where both sides were trying to push the other back, but the Christians had an easier time of it. As the sun disappeared beneath the horizon an hour later, it was then that Hjalmar heard the signal that he had been waiting for. 

The shift in the battle didn’t happen immediately. It was gradual, but noticeable -- men found their way through whatever barricades or guards were placed around the sewers and emerged in the district itself. They were one part a flanking force and one part a disruption force. The men who poured into the district attacked the gates from behind in bands of a hundred men, and others went to the churches. 

The priests inside weren’t cut from the same cloth as Otto was; otherwise, they would do more than hide and pray. When Norsemen started battering at their doors, killing their guardsmen, some of them panicked. They issued orders that had the effect that Hjalmar wanted -- they thought the battle for the walls lost, and wanted their army to come back and protect them. 

As a result, the resistance on the walls started to vanish like dew under the sun. The flanked warriors were overwhelmed, either surrendering or fighting to the last. Once the resistance broke on the walls, the battle was won, and it was just a case of chasing them down. 

The fleeing Christians left an obvious trail to the important priests and the pope. They fled en masse to a central church that looked more important than others. Bigger. Grander. A lot of statues and engravings -- most of it was lost on Hjalmar. The buildings themselves interested him little, far less so than what was inside the buildings. 

He barked orders at the men, refusing to let the chaos of before overwhelm the district. 

“Leave a rearguard! Five hundred men! I don’t want those layabouts getting their hands on what we bleed for!” Hjalmar shouted out, much to the agreement of the men, who started to guard the district while others began to besiege the churches. Heavy axes were taken to the doors, men hacking away at them while others went to the stained glass windows to start knocking them out to find a way inside. 

The assault was a formality by that point. The doors gave way, and the warriors inside attempted to push back the flood of Norsemen that poured in -- there was no other way to describe what came next other than a slaughter. The Christians fought desperately, and like a cornered rat, they fought ferociously. It just wasn’t enough. His men were better armed, armored, and more experienced. 

With steady progress, they took the church and all those within it. By the time he entered it himself, the air carried the heavy scent of blood and shit along with the scent of incense. He walked along the pews under the ornate halls of the church, his gaze drifting to the painted walls, the vast riches on open display… There was more wealth in this single room than he had ever seen in the entirety of his life. And that was saying something. 

The prisoners were gathered up near the altar under the watchful eyes of their god. There were a lot of them. Most of them were ornately dressed, marking them as at least nobility or important priests. They would ransom enough to match what the Allvaldr had taken with him when he sacked the cities in Hispania, Hjalmar reckoned. However, there was one prisoner in particular who had his full attention. 

The man flinched at his approach. He was a graybeard, though his cheeks were shaven, revealing a face full of wrinkles and bushy white eyebrows. He managed a feeble protest in what was probably Latin when Hjalmar plucked a hat from his brow. It was tall, richly embroidered, with a thin crown embedded into the cloth. 

“And you must be the Pope,” Hjalmar reasoned, holding the crowned hat aloft. He gave it a look over, a frown tugging at his lips as the various priests hissed and cursed him for handling it, smudging the white cloth with blood. 

The reaction they gave when he placed the strange hat on top of his head wasn’t too far off from killing a man’s firstborn child before his very eyes, but Hjalmar paid them no mind and instead looked to his men. 

“Send word to King Hoffer. Rome has fallen.”