With two longships under his command, Bjorn sailed from Britain and struck the northern coast of West Francia—what would one day be Normandy.
At this time, West Francia lay under the rule of the Carolingians. Its king was Charles the Bald.
When Louis the Pious died, Charles and his two brothers signed the Treaty of Verdun, carving up Charlemagne's vast empire from west to east into three realms—West Francia, Middle Francia, and East Francia.
West Francia roughly corresponded to future France.
Middle Francia stretched from the Low Countries to Italy, a long narrow strip.
East Francia encompassed central-western Germany, Switzerland, and Austria.
Compared with the petty Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of Britain, West Francia was far stronger. Bjorn had no wish to linger. He kept south along the coast, striking Brittany, and eventually reached the mouth of the Garonne near Bordeaux.
"Odin above, vineyards as far as the eye could see! Almost every village had its own wine cellars," he recalled.
Downing two cups in quick succession, wine dripping through his ragged beard, he snorted, "Compared to what I drank in Bordeaux, what passes for wine here in York is swill—second-rate at best."
Succumbing to the lure of drink, the Vikings drifted along the Garonne, raiding village wine stores as they went. Their debauchery ended only when a Frankish lord dispatched knights against them. Bjorn retreated to the sea once more.
Southward they went, until they reached Asturias in northern Spain.
When the Western Roman Empire collapsed in the fifth century, the Goths seized Spain, founding the Visigothic Kingdom. But after three centuries, their infighting weakened them. Rebels called on Moorish aid—the Arabs and Berbers of the desert. After seven years of war, the Moors ruled almost all Iberia, save for a few northern holdouts.
"The locals are always fighting," Bjorn said. "They keep watchtowers strung along the coast. One fire, and within hours an armed mob will rise against you."
He had no wish to bleed against such vigilance. Re-provisioning, he sailed past Portugal and through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean.
Two towns he plundered along the North African shore—until Moorish galleys gave furious chase. Hounded by a dozen oared ships, he fled northward, skirting the Spanish coast until he collapsed into Frankish lands again, where his crews repaired their battered vessels.
But the failure to gain promised riches gnawed at his men. Murmurs rose, then open challenge. A duel followed. Bjorn's strength carried the day, but barely. With discipline reimposed, they set sail once more, harassing towns along the northern Mediterranean—Montpellier, Marseille, Cannes.
At last they reached a city of marble halls and grand quays.
"Rome!" Bjorn declared.
"Wait," Vig interrupted. "Are you certain that was Rome itself?"
Bjorn's eyes darted aside. "Well… perhaps… maybe… probably Rome."
They sacked the port district—whatever city it was—and seized precious spices from the East. Yet with numbers dwindling and tempers frayed, the remaining thirty raiders clamored for home.
Reluctant but outvoted, Bjorn yielded. They slipped back through Gibraltar by night, and by Odin's mercy reached Britain again without further loss.
Now, in the hall at York, his tale rang truer than the boasts he had made before. No giants, no sea-monsters, no captive kings, no adoring princesses. Most days were endless drifting, every landing meant danger, and sleep itself was a luxury.
As for "sacking Rome"? Vig was near certain it was a lie. Rome sat inland, astride the Tiber, whose mouth at Ostia served as port. Perhaps Bjorn raided some Italian harbor—Genoa, Pisa, another town. They had stolen spices in the confusion, then fled before the guard arrived.
Swirling the wine in his cup, Vig sighed. "Ninety-two Vikings set out. Two years later, twenty-eight limp back. The spoils are rich—but the price, too heavy."
"You're right," Bjorn admitted. "I've no wish to return to the Middle Sea any time soon. My tale is done. Now—it's your turn. Tell me of 'Jotunheim.'"
"As you wish." Vig poured wine onto the table, tracing lines with his finger.
"Here is Bergen. Sail west—you'll reach the Shetlands. West again, the Faroes. There, you may find a final resupply among a few scattered Norsemen. From there, westward still. With Odin's blessing, you'll sight a land larger than Ireland.
"But it is not Jotunheim. No frost giants, no beasts of legend. Only barren ground, poor for farming. Life there must be won by grazing flocks and hauling fish from the sea."
"Is that so?" Bjorn muttered, disappointment clouding his voice. "No gold, no silver, no iron?"
"How could I know where its veins lie? I've never set foot there," Vig scoffed. "If I had, do you think I'd tell you so lightly?"
Their talk of "Jotunheim" ended, the two men fell to brooding drink. Vig's gaze strayed to a knot of Berber captives in the corner.
"Do any of them know shipbuilding?" he asked.
"Five were shipwrights. Two sailed as far as India. It was from them I learned navigation." Bjorn drew from his cloak a brass astrolabe and a wooden quadrant, demonstrating their use.
"With these, one can mark the North Star, the sun's height, and fix a ship's latitude. The Berbers sew planks with palm fiber or coconut cord, not nails. Their sails are triangular, lateen rigs—nimble even in side-winds."
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