Chapter 2) Dorestad; The Centrum of Wine and Slave Trade
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With the same vigorous spirit, the overseers filled up the cages and their travel continued. As Ivar tried to relax his stiff back against the iron frame of his cage, the road slowly changed from murky grime to a pattern of cobblestones. Reserved, he made no attempt to speak to his partners of misfortune and tried to memorise the route they were taking.
Aside from him, two older men traded information. They spoke with heavy dialect, still Ivar was able to overhear the essence: the country they've been shipped too was called Frisia, which was part of the Frankish empire, since Charlemagne's invasion. Soon, Ivar learned that the language of the overseers was called Dietsc and that their travel would end at the auction in Dorestad; the centrum of wine and slave trade.
Grey clouds formed an impenetrable fortress for the sun and therefore harvested all warmth. Specks drizzled down onto the heads of the soon to be slaves; aggravating Ivar's black mood.
The Gods were pissing down on him, it was a clear sign of their disappointment, which Ivar shared. He should have fought in Wessex, instead of being his father's obedient little lapdog. Look where his uncharacteristic meek behaviour had brought him; caged, crossing a grey, dead-beat country.
Robbed of his leather tunic, Ivar was an easy target for the cold; the rain effortlessly seeped through the thin fabric of his clothes. The absence of decent meals and a good night's rest made hunger gnaw on his stomach and cluttered his mind.
The breeze had been mild at first, but now numbed his face, hands and feet. With no buffer from the cold, his body started to lose heat rapidly. Ivar's teeth clattered behind his bluish lips when their trip ended at an imposing settlement.
The carts stopped abruptly at the city's centre; a marketplace of comprehensive size. Foreign chattering rumbled between sellers and buyers, haggling over the best products for the best prizes. Crates for vegetables, fruits, grain and cheese lay tactically on display while the seller shouted, trying to overrule others with their volume.
Massive barrels were being pushed onto carts, exporting the finest wines throughout the country while vendors shook hands, collecting their fee.
Live stock was being ushered through the crowd, calves abruptly separated from their mothers, chickens were being sold in cages, so small that the animals started to peck at each other.
Ivar soon realised he wasn't different from the cattle being pushed and pulled around. In the middle of the market, there was a small stage where a group of possible buyers had assembled in lines, eager to buy the best of human merchandise.
Men, women and children were put up for display. One by one, an overseer showed off their muscles, healthy teeth, shiny hair. And like meek lambs, the slaves passively let them. Most kept their eyes at their feet or at the horizon; their gazes shared the same emptiness and dejection.
Ivar's cart was one mainly filled with elderly men, a few young children and a pregnant woman. Their cart was the last to be auctioneered and the audience had drastically decreased once the first men of their cart came up for display.
When Ivar was pulled up the stage by the overseers, parts of the lost attention slipped back. Audience members paused their chattering, turned back to lay their eyes on the crippled.
Mocking and laughter echoed through the air when the overseer tried to point out Ivar's well developed upper body in a bid to minimize the focus on his handicapped legs.
Throughout his life, Ivar had become indifferent to the cautious stares and quiet whispers that bubbled up every time he dragged his sorry arse through Kattegat. But to have his disadvantages pulled up for full display while a crowd of Christians pointed, stared and ridiculed him was unforgivable.
Rage riled up his temper, fury warmed up his numb limbs and made him jerk loose from the overseer. With all the passion his wavering body could muster, he pulled himself along to the wooden edge. A scream seated deep from within, forced its way out of Ivar's mouth. Like a beast, he howled; startling and scarring the spectators.
A young boy was being hoisted up his mother's chest, as Ivar produced unhinged hollers.
The overseers swiftly stepped in, putting an end to the rebellious act.
It wasn't the first blow that silenced him, neither was it the second, nor the third. It took a solid hit of a baton between Ivar's ribs to make him moan and fall.
There was nothing glorious about taking the beating, it was a lost cause; three vital men were towering over him while they kicked the living daylight out of him. One managed to repeatedly hit the same spot; the kidneys.
A fist slammed his eye shut, his skull ricocheted onto the wood and as blood pooled into his mouth, Ivar slowly saw all the light fade away. A flock of ravens circled far above him, cawing ominously. Ivar managed to tilt his chin up and plead: "forgive me father, for I could not avenge you," before embracing the darkness, like an old friend.
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Blinking his one good eye, a montage of angered, shocked faces. Blinking again, blood still seeped from his busted lip.
A piece of rotten fruit smashed against the side of his face. Laughing, sneering, taunts spoken in unfamiliar tongues.
Another cart. Wrist twisted behind his back, aching and chained. Knees scraped over bloody planks of the stage. The smell of hay and mildew, cold, aching limbs and not enough strength to lift his chin up. Tilting his head then. A giant grinned down at him from high above, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth and gabs. Crows feet radiated from the corners of the Giant's grey eyes, revealing the amusement of watching Ivar's battered state.
The Giant handed a few coins to the overseer, but the man refused and without further notice Ivar was given away for free.
The ride that followed was one of pure agony. The cobblestoned road made Ivar's beaten body toss, turn and tumble. With his wrist shackled behind his back, it was impossible to keep himself in place. All that remained was simply to endure, which was easier said than done. The searing pain coming from his ribs made Ivar gasp for air like a fish on dry land.
That sound earned him a soft chuckle from the Giant, sitting up front at the buck. The man clacked his tongue, ordering the horses to trotter.
The acceleration made the motions grow in multitude. Ivar's body was tossed from side to side like a rag doll until he was knocked out due to the intensity of the pain.
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A/N: So I tend to enjoy beating the shit out of Ivar a little too much. And this is just the beginning, because this cocky little bastard needs to understand his new place in the world. I don't think you'll be too shocked, but Ivar's going to have some difficulty accepting his 'new place'.
Also Dorestad was a real city. I'm from Holland and always love to somehow merge a little tat of my 'world' into the story. So there you go, little bit of Dutch History!
Xoxox Nukyster