In late August, the caravan departed Constantinople, its holds filled with spices and silks—along with three imperial clerks whose faces bore the bitterness of men dispatched unwillingly.
Retracing their route toward the Dnieper's mouth, the party sold off two surplus vessels at a loss. The cargo occupied little space; a single merchant ship was more than sufficient.
Two months later, beneath the chill breath of autumn, Otto steered their ship into the Dnieper's middle reaches. With the river soon to freeze, the caravan could advance no farther. They were obliged to winter among the tribe of Otto's father-in-law, resuming their voyage only when the ice broke in March.
Faced with half a year of enforced idleness, Rurik resolved to put the time to use. Each day he trained his body for two hours; the rest he spent under the tutelage of a fellow Viking settler, learning the runic script.
The runes numbered only twenty-four letters, fit for short inscriptions but ill-suited to sustained writing, and known to few. As he studied, Rurik brooded. In two years' time, he would attempt to refine this script into something more practical. Should he fail, he would resign himself to mastering Latin.
Meanwhile, Byzantine envoys ranged through the region, urging the Rus tribes to turn their strength against the Pechenegs. Their arguments were plain: the nomad threat grew year by year; unchecked, it might one day swell into a storm like Attila's Huns—the Scourge of God—who had once laid Rome low.
In return, the Empire promised artisans to teach improved farming methods, and the sale of weapons and armor.
Yet the Rus chieftains hesitated. To the west of the Dnieper, the steppe tribes were weak; to the east, the plains teemed with countless nomadic clans. If they provoked the Great Khan, he might summon ten thousand horsemen in reprisal. What then?
After much debate, the chieftains struck a compromise: their warriors might serve as mercenaries in Byzantine garrisons along the Black Sea coast, but only as individuals, and only if the Empire paid a worthy price.
"Barbarian mercenaries… not a poor notion," murmured the envoy.
He found it reasonable enough. Compared to the Greeks, the tribes of Eastern and Northern Europe were tall, hardy, accustomed to hardship—the very stuff of heavy infantry. After brief consultation with his fellows, the envoy sealed the pact. How effective the arrangement might prove was for generals to discover; he, at least, had discharged his duty.
The following April, the caravan set out once more. Two Viking shieldmen chose to remain behind and settle. Though their comrades parted with regret, their task was complete; Ivar had no grounds to forbid them.
Thus the company was reduced to six.
The upstream voyage was slow, far longer than the year before. By the time they reached Lake Ladoga, it was already late September.
At parting, Ivar invited Otto to Gothenburg, but the latter gently refused.
"Farewell, my brother. I have cherished this fellowship, yet my fate is bound to this dark soil. When we meet again, may it be with cups of mead in hand."
He embraced each man in turn—Rurik, Ivar, Björn, Nils, Gunnar, and Orm—before they watched his ship vanish into the horizon.
From the spring of 841 to the winter of 842, nearly two years had slipped away.
When Rurik at last beheld Ragnar again, he saw beside him a woman he had never met, cradling a newborn child. She was Sola, Ragnar's new bride—and, so they told him, the youngest sister of King Erik.
Björn scowled darkly.
"We leave for two years, and he has a wife and child already."
Ivar was more serene.
"Long ago, a seer foretold that Father would one day wear a crown, take three wives, and sire five sons. Such is the destiny the gods have set; none may alter it."
He stepped forward, lifting the infant in his arms.
"His name is Ubbe? Hah. A fine name. May he grow into a mighty warrior."
Ubbe…
Rurik's mind raced. In history, Ragnar's sons were famed:
Ivar the Boneless
Björn Ironside
Halfdan the White
Ubbe the Brave
Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye
So Ragnar must yet take another wife, and father the fifth son—Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye.
And yet, with his own presence altering the weave of fate, could history still unfold as before? Rurik could not be sure. He would have to wait and see.
For now, he set such thoughts aside. At the feast, he regaled the warriors with tales of his journey.
"After the nomads struck, we scattered into the woods. I ran alone—until the brush beside the path stirred…"
In truth, Rurik disliked boasting, but in the North a man's renown was his lifeblood. To gather followers, to rise to the stature of Ragnar or Lagertha, he must magnify his deeds until they were legend.
"On the northern shore of the Black Sea, I caught sight of Lord Borg. He galloped through the streets on a white horse, while I raced across the rooftops. At last I leapt and dragged him down, snapping his neck with my bare hands…"
"And here—this Damascus steel blade I won in a duel before the emperor himself. The Dowager Theodora doubted my tale of slaying ten nomads alone. She sent a champion to test me—he fell within two strokes!"
As the mead flowed, his words grew wild. At last, he curled up in a corner with the sword he had named Dragon's Breath, and slept.
The next morning, Ivar shook him awake.
"Up, Rurik! Time to divide the spoils."
They gathered in a quiet chamber, the six companions tallying their gains.
First they deducted expenses in Constantinople: Ivar's purchase of the fine sword Heartbreaker; Björn's dubious hoard of sea charts; Gunnar's costly jewels for wife and children.
Rurik, who had spent the least, claimed the richest share. By local reckoning, his portion was worth twenty pounds of silver—equal to Gothenburg's taxes for two full years.
The figure staggered him. Yet on reflection, it was clear: with only two thousand subjects scratching at barren soil, the town could yield no more. Small wonder the Norse turned their thoughts so often to raiding.
When all was settled, Ivar looked around and, seeing no dissent, declared the two-year venture complete.
"Brothers, you have endured much. I thank you for sharing this journey. From this day forth, should any man wrong you, know that Ivar will stand at your side!"