Legends Never Die: The Ripples of Change (ch. 121)

“Hjalmar. That means helmeted warrior, aye? So… where's your helmet?” It took every ounce of willpower and a quick prayer to the gods to stop Hjalmar’s eyes from rolling right out of his head. That, and the fact that he was already utterly exhausted. Sweat dripped into his eyes and down his face with seemingly every movement. His back and legs ached from yesterday's long day of hard labor which today’s labor had only made worse. 

“You’re hilarious. Really. Odin himself must have snatched every last wit in your head, but paid you back with jests,” Hjalmar replied, grunting as he dumped a load of dirt into an ever-growing pile. “You, and every other dunderhead that made that same joke.”

The retort got a round of laughs from the others nearby. They hardly had lungs full of air to laugh with, but despite the labor, they huffed and puffed with amusement. Spirits were high, as after near four months, they were nearly done with the construction. Their destination was in sight, and Hjalmar found himself glancing back at the progress that they had already made. 

It was a road. Not just any road, but a great road. The King's Road. Wide enough to fit four wagons across, raised sides at the edges except for marked drainages that flowed into a ditch that was dug out. That excess dirt was usually shoveled ahead where the ground was uneven and needed to be leveled, joined by the dirt that was dug up for the roads themselves. He’d never imagined how much work went into a proper road. 

But it was a lot of work. First, the path needed to be marked. The route was laid out using twine and stakes so they knew where they were going. Then, the road needed to be dug out for the layers that ran underneath the top. The bottom layer was packed dirt, and above it was layered stones. Above that was loose gravel underneath a layer of sand. Then came the heavy stones that were settled in place at the top. 

As it was, a mile of road took about two to three weeks to build. Meaning that within the three months his labor crew had worked, they had built about four miles of the road that would stretch across Sjaelland. At the rate they were going, it would be decades before the project was completed. 

But that was on the assumption that his crew was the only one building the great road. 

In truth they were but one of many working the same job across all of Denmark. Not just Sjaelland, but all of Denmark. Each group was responsible for a portion of the road where their end point would meet the beginning point of another crew. With every individual part of the construction being further broken up -- there were the dig crews, which he was part of. Then there were the stone layers, and so on until you reached the final layer and the road could be called complete. It made the hard work fast with each group responsible for a part of the job, letting them work at their own pace without needing to worry about hold ups. 

Within the first year, the framework of the roads would be completed. In the years that followed, branching roads would be added. In a few decades, Hjalmar didn't expect to see a single dirt road. King Siegfried seemed to find them deeply and personally offensive. 

Hjalmar didn't really get it if he was being entirely honest, but the pay was good. Good enough that most didn't bother with a seasonal raid as the wages paid by King Siegfried were about as much as one could expect from a good raid. 

“Quit your tongue wagging,” their overseer barked out, “We're in the final stretch and if I have to redo a foot of this road because you lot were slacking…” he let the threat go unfinished, but it had the intended effect. The workers continued to labor -- dirt was broken, shoveled and hauled away to and from the front of the road. There, it would be shifted for loose stones, sand, and clay which would make their way to the other crews. 

Though, the silence didn't last too long. “That one is working us like a lot of thralls,” the jester remarked out of the corner of his mouth. His name was Trym. He was a decade older than Hjalmar, putting him in his late twenties compared to Hjalmar's late teens. Though he looked older, with white already streaking in his beard. He was a solidly built man, however, and because of it he was the one they usually left to break up the larger stones they discovered digging the road out. 

“I hear the king is getting rid of slavery,” another man working down the line remarked. “Which is why he's got us working like thralls.” 

“Is he? I thought he was putting some limitations on it?” Another asked. 

“That's the right of it,” Hjalmar spoke up, stomping on the shovel and shifting the earth. “They aren't big changes, mind you. The biggest change is that thralldom can't be an inherited status, so children are born free.” Slavery also seemed to be something that the king had a personal distaste for. There were talks of other reforms -- that thralls could only be enslaved for a number of years before being granted their freedom, or that thralls were to receive a ‘half-wage’ for the work they did, allowing them to purchase their freedom. 

Hjalmar hadn't heard anything beyond that, though, and as far as he could tell, the latter reforms hadn't been implemented. Yet. 

“Seems strange,” Trym muttered. “Why’s he doing that?” He asked, looking at Hjalmar like he knew the king's reasons. 

“How am I to know?” Hjalmar replied, giving an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. 

“Because Odin gave you more than your fair share of wits,” Trym replied, making him blink at the compliment that was delivered like an insult. And, for all he knew, it was. 

Still, he wasn't wrong. He did have a couple of guesses. “My guess is that slaves don't pay taxes,” he reasoned, and that got noises of acknowledgement down the line. “And there's not a king on Midgard that doesn't love their taxes.” 

Thralls didn't generate any wealth of their own, only for their owners. That wealth could only be taxed so much before the owners became mutinous and started to look around for a new king. That, and Hjalmar reasoned that the king would get more in taxes from a hundred freemen than he would from a single thrall owner with a hundred thralls. 

That wasn't to say that thralldom didn't have its own way of making profit. There were some things that could only be done by thralls -- such as mining. There were few mines in Denmark, but from what he’d heard about them… no sane man would delve into pitch black darkness to extract wealth from the realm of the dwarves. No sane… or free man, at least. Life for miners was often as short as it was hard, and no one would ever call mining easy labor. The king could triple his current wage, and Hjalmar would refuse to work in those small and cramped tunnels. 

“Money. It all comes down to money,” Trym remarked, sounding entirely too amused for his own good. “Speaking of which, what are you lot going to be doing with yours once we get our pay?” 

“Why bother asking?” 

“Drinking?” 

“And whoring.” 

“And gambling!” 

The answers came quickly down the line and Hjalmar snorted as they worked. The king paid them well from the monstrous hoard that he had claimed in his adventures in the ‘Mediterranean Sea.’ And with that wealth, he was remaking the kingdom. He built roads and cities like a child might build a sand castle, moved people about like they were toys he could move from one spot to another, and changed things down to the bedrock of the kingdom. All because he had the power to do so.

“You, helmetless warrior?” Trym asked, shooting him a grin. 

“All three, of course,” Hjalmar replied, and the words were only half a lie. The remarks earned a cheer of agreement and they all looked forward to blowing through their months wage in a single night. The overseer cracked down on them once more, but their good cheer lasted until the very end of their shift. And towards the end, Hjalmar saw it. Both the road that they were meant to join with… and what the road led to.

Miklagard. Once it had been a city of legend that few believed had existed until King Siegfried had proven its existence, and in doing so, gave the mythical city a new name -- Constantinople. The new capital of Denmark had remained nameless for a time, but not for long. Not when the roads were laid, the foundations for buildings were settled and built upon. Before the very first month had passed, the capital of Denmark had received its name, long before it had finished. Miklagard, the Great City. 

“We finished early,” Trym noted, looking off in the same direction as he did. “We could make the journey.” 

“... Aye, we could,” Hjalmar agreed. The idea sounded far more appealing than going back to the work camp. Miklagard was quite the name, and Hjalmar was curious if it lived up to it. With that decision made, they all shuffled into the overseer’s tent, and it was there that they received their month’s wage. They stood in line, and over the course of an hour, each man received their pay. 

Hjalmar ran his finger over a coin made of bronze. Amongst the very first things that King Siegfried had done once he conquered Denmark was to issue coins in his image. On one side was his portrait, though he noted it did a poor job of reflecting the king himself. On the back of the coin was a two-headed raven with its wings fanned out wide. The edges of the coin itself were of interest as they were ridged, making it rather difficult to shave off a little of the coin, as did the words written in runes around the sides, though he couldn’t read them. 

There were five types of coins, though Hjalmar had only seen two of them. The lowest was made of copper, then bronze, then silver, then a larger silver coin, then a gold coin. Each one minted with different icons on the back of the coins to prevent others from mixing and matching. Coppers and bronze coins were what they received as pay -- a few coppers could get you a night at an inn, food, and drink. 

Larger denominations, naturally, were reserved for the nobility and the rich. He wasn’t sure how true the rumors were, but it was said that one of King Siegfried’s gold coins was worth a thousand copper ones.  

For a month’s worth of work, he had been paid a grand sum of twenty-five bronze coins, paid out in the form of twenty bronze coins and fifty copper. A tidy sum. It was no gold or silver, but it was enough for a man to live off of and enjoy himself without needing to pinch every copper until the king’s visage screamed. It was a wage that he’d call fair -- not so much so that he’d call it generous, but also not enough that he’d call it cheap. 

It was with that pay that he and his crew broke down their tents and set out on the road that led to Miklagard, and they were but one of many as the other crews trailed behind or before them. It was hardly a short journey, measured in miles, but they arrived at the outskirts of the city before dusk. They walked by a number of farms, and Hjalmar noted that each one was extensively cultivated. 

It was a clever trick, he could acknowledge. When the king first announced his reforms… well, farmers were a stubborn lot to begin with, and no one disliked change more than farmers and graybeards. When lines in established farms were redrawn, or villages were relocated, or they were instructed to change what they planted and when? Just before anyone could really dig their heels in, those same farmers suddenly found a plow or farm animals gifted to their village. 

It was the same damned trick that his mother used to pull on him, and just like with him it worked like a charm every single time. 

But, as they neared Miklagard, it began to dawn on the lot of them how strange the city was. It was utterly unlike anything that any of them had ever seen before. The roads narrowed by half, but the buildings themselves made Hjalmar feel like he had just stepped into another realm. They were tall, about half the length of a tree or thereabouts, with three distinct floors. Their rooftops were sharp slopes to deal with the snow that would be coming in but a few months while the faces of the building were painted in vibrant colors -- reds, oranges, blues, and greens. 

They were hardly the only ones gaping at the city as they walked its roads. It was hardly complete at the moment, Hjalmar saw. It was being carefully developed around important roads and locations -- like the market, the longhouse, and the docks, with the rest marked for future construction. The city wasn’t even a third of the way done by the looks of things, but it already felt like it had more than earned its name of Miklagard.

“Oi, that’s a bath house,” Hjalmar heard someone point out. He looked over at a building, finding that it was a bit different from the others -- it had a sign over it, but he couldn’t read the runes. But, more importantly, he saw a picture of a wooden tub filled with water painted on it. Keenly aware of his own stink, he was quick to agree to take a bath before they found a tavern. There, they found a portly man standing in a stone lobby. 

He greeted a lot of them with a practiced smile. “Welcome to my bathhouse -- construction, I presume?” He remarked, his gaze bouncing between the dozen of them as if he were trying to judge how heavy their coin purses were with only a glance. “We offer a wide variety of grooming options! Baths, of course, are for public use, but there are additional options you may… indulge in. Private baths, haircuts, wine and food, or being bathed by one of our beautiful bath companions.”

The owner was a merchant by nature, Hjalmar acknowledged. It had been months since most of them had seen a woman, and their purses were full of coin while they were eager to relax. However, Hjalmar refrained while others indulged. The prices were relatively cheap -- a few copper for some food, a few more for some wine, a couple more for a trim for their beards and hair. The most expensive additional expense was a bath companion, which cost five coins while a private bath cost a single bronze. Though, the latter was something of a trick as you could only hire a bath maid on the condition that you paid for a private bath. 

It added up quickly as some quickly learned, paying a notable portion of a month's pay easily. Hjalmar chose for a simple bath with no amenities, and he was surprised by what he was greeted with when he entered the bath house properly. 

There was a large pool of water that steam gently rose up from located in the center of the room. The water seemed to run deeply as most of the men already in it were submerged up to their chests. Off to the side, Hjalmar saw a cleaning area where they'd wipe the dust, dirt, and sweat off before entering the bath. After quickly rinsing himself down, he groaned with relief once he sank into the warm water. 

He nearly nodded off then and there, finding the tension fleeing from his body. Instead he forced his eyes to remain open, keenly aware of where his possessions were to make sure no one attempted to steal from him. Meanwhile he also drank in the sight of the bath house itself-- it was all made of white rock, marble, by the looks of things, giving an… ethereal feeling to the place. 

“It doesn't feel real,” he muttered to himself, his gaze following one of his work companions as he headed to the private baths with a downright giddy expression on his face. 

“You know what?” Trym began, pouring himself a heavy glass from a pitcher of wine that he purchased. “I thought the king was full of shit,” he admitted freely and without hesitation. “Change this, change that -- I figured he was just choking the life out of Denmark so no one could challenge him. But this ain't too bad. I could see more of this.” 

There were a handful of already drunken cheers that came from other patrons, cheering for their new king who had already upturned everything. Trym proved generous and shared his purchased wine around with his fellows, but Hjalmar sipped it sparingly. Instead, he watched. And he listened. 

There were a dozen different little conversations that were taking place in the bathhouse -- men talking about their trade, grumbling about the prices for nails or iron. Others worried about where they would find work now that the road work was complete for the year. Most of it was petty gossip, but that didn't mean it wasn't worthwhile. People liked to talk, after all, and in times such as these… Hjalmar couldn't discount anything. 

And that was how he found himself pulled into a game of dice in the middle of the bath along with a few others. 

“There won't be any raiding come spring,” one man informed, slamming a cup filled with dice on a stone table in the middle of the bath before unveiling the poor roll. The tables were meant for such activities, and to hold the purchased drink and food. “The king is going to expand the domain -- already pulled Saxony into things, and word is that Norway is going to bend the knee to him soon.”  

“Two more crowns right after he put on his first one, and he's looking for more?” Trym questioned, scooping up the dice and shaking them in a well worn cup. “He's got the hunger of Fenrir in him.” He tsked at his own poor roll before he passed the cup to Hjalmar. 

“Has anyone been saying where he's planning to attack?” Hjalmar questioned, shaking the cup and hearing the dice clatter within. 

“It'd be easier to tell you where he's not,” The older man replied. “It's not a secret that he plans to conquer Scandinavia. He declared as such himself.” 

He slammed the cup down on the marble table, lifting the cup up to reveal a decent roll. He swallowed a smirk as the others puffed up, but dutifully paid him his few coppers. “Aye, that's no secret, but there's got to be a starting point, right?” 

The older man shrugged, “I'm not sure about that. But, what I have heard is that his personal army is here to stay.” Fifteen thousand warriors. The very idea seemed utterly absurd. He had fought in Saxony, and again in Denmark on behalf of King Godfrey -- the armies numbered in the thousands there, and he couldn't imagine a battle bigger than the ones he already fought in. Then King Horrik mustered an army thirty thousand strong, only for it to be swept aside with ease by King Seigfried’s ten. 

Fifteen thousand men was an unbeatable fighting force. The other Jarls, even if they rebelled from the positions that King Siegfried had granted them, could muster up around a few hundred. Maybe a thousand at the extreme end. With a standing army of fifteen thousand warriors? They didn't stand a chance. No rebellion did. 

“He's doing more than that,” Trym spoke up as the round began again. “I heard he's expanding the army. Recruiting from towns and villages.” 

“Aye, but that's not for his personal army,” the man clarified. “That, I reckon, is for the conquest.” 

“You'd think fifteen thousand warriors would be more than enough,” Trym noted. “I can't imagine anyone facing that on the field and winning.” 

“It might not be for the field,” Hjalmar spoke up, once more finding that he had the cup. Dice wasn't an easy game to cheat at, but it was doable. It all came down to the wrist motions. This time, when he slapped the cup down and unveiled his roll, he rolled low, so he dutifully passed over a copper coin to the old man. “King Siegfried is a Dane. One of us. Reputation or not, I imagine we'd have a lot harder time swallowing his rule if he was a Saxon.” 

“A garrison then? To keep the conquered quiet?” The old man considered it before he nodded, collecting his winnings. “That could explain it,” he agreed. 

“I think some of it is still going to his personal army, though,” Trym insisted and Hjalmar nodded. 

“I reckon the same,” he agreed. “His warriors are all rich. Not as rich as he is, but pretty damn rich. It'd make sense that some would want to retire with their earnings. Or even most of them.” That had caused something of a stir, and not a good one. 

Upon King Siegfried's return to Denmark and his assuming the crown, his warriors began purchasing a great deal of property for themselves and their kin. The offers that they made were simply too generous to refuse. That would have been fine, for the most part, even if it did mean that entire families were untethered with more coin than they could spend. But it was coupled with another issue. 

Siegfried's warriors could afford not only large stretches of land, but generous bride prices. Fathers were foisting their daughters at the wealthy veterans in the hopes of securing their family’s future, while daughters of wealthy landholders or even nobility were trying to tether them to their lands and family. It happened in what felt like a blink of the eye, but seemingly every woman of marrying age got snatched up. An exaggeration, of course, but not by much. 

Which all compounded with yet another issue that King Siegfried had brought with him. 

When he returned from his great adventure, he brought what amounted to a framework of a city with him -- merchants, tradesmen, scholars, bureaucrats. Foreigners, almost one and all. With his return, it felt like he had already chosen the winners of this great upheaval. It allowed him to hit the ground running and build all that he had in so little time, but his return wasn't a good thing for everyone. 

“Makes sense,” Trym voiced with a nod. “I imagine most are going to be clamoring to join. If only to find a woman,” he added with a snort. 

He was making a jest of it, but he was more right than he realized. The army was another prospect that Hjalmar considered. King Siegfried’s success was well known by this point, as was the wealth one could earn by following him into battle. The metal armor that you could forge for yourself by taking iron from the defeated… for many, there was now no greater dream than earning such a set of armor. But honor would only be a part of it, as for many young men they would be forced to look abroad for a wife. Abroad, or at a slave market. 

Actually… “Maybe that’s his intention,” Hjalmar remarked with a small frown. King Siegfried had more than proven his ability to plan for the future. Perhaps the problems that Denmark faced were well accounted for and were going to be exploited. 

A mass drive for the military to fuel his conquest of Scandinavia. It’d be a way to harness the momentum that he created. That drive that now fueled every young man who wanted to find their fortune and leave their mark -- King Siegfried had proven what was out there. He’d conquered Denmark and forged a kingdom that he left behind in the Mediterranean. As well as allowed his recruits to claim lands for themselves. 

It was a drive that ignited in his own chest as he looked down at the dice that were once more in his hands. Gambling well was a dangerous thing. You couldn’t take too much from your fellows, else you would earn their ire. When you won big, you had to give them a chance to earn some of their coin back. Likewise, you also had to lose to avoid accusations of cheating. And sometimes you had to walk away from the table poorer than you arrived to avoid suspicion. 

There was a wealth of opportunity in Denmark at the moment, but it took coin to seize those opportunities. That was why, for months, he had saved every coin that he could. He gambled, taking the wages of his fellows copper by copper, until his savings had swelled to a hundred and fifteen bronze coins. A tidy sum that would carry him through the winter and beyond. 

“No matter what,” Hjalmar continued as he brought the cup down and raised it to reveal a winning hand. Come spring, the kingdom would once more be set in motion, and the future would be written in blood at the tip of King Siegfried’s sword. “The future sure does look interesting.”

And, one way or the other, he would seize every opportunity set before him.