After the Battle of Nice, the Eastern Roman Empire declared victory, claiming to have sunk fifty Viking warships.
Before the people of Italy had time to celebrate, however, another piece of bad news followed.
Huge quantities of grain from Toulouse, Burgundy, and Provence were being shipped to Marseille.
Rumor had it that the Serpent of the North was marching south with an army of one hundred thousand, intending to emulate Hannibal Barca by unleashing a series of brutal wars across Italy.
When the news reached an elegant villa in Ravenna, the mistress of the house was delighted rather than alarmed.
Ending her conversation with several noblewomen, she hurried back to the garden and, for the first time in a long while, smiled at her husband.
"The Viking army is marching through the Rhône Valley. They'll launch their offensive in about half a month.
"Your chance has finally come. This time, make sure you redeem yourself and wash away your disgrace."
Disgrace?
Gunnar set down his carving knife and the small wooden figurine in his hands.
He looked up at the woman who had shared his life for twenty years.
There were countless things he wanted to say.
Instead, he swallowed them all.
"I understand."
For the past two years, Gunnar had effectively lived under house arrest.
His wife, son, and daughter-in-law, however, were free to come and go.
The three of them enjoyed life in what had once been the capital of the Roman Empire, attending banquets and moving through fashionable social circles.
Occasionally, Gunnar overheard them discussing events beyond the estate.
For example, in Iberia, his illegitimate son Henry had married a distant relative of King Alfonso, further securing his position in Zaragoza.
Most of the time, though, Gunnar remained alone in the garden, passing the days with woodcarving.
Nearly every figurine depicted a bearded Viking raider wearing a Germanic helmet.
Each one represented someone from his memories.
Ragnar.
Ivar.
Björn.
...
After Vivian left, Gunnar picked up his knife again and carved almost unconsciously.
When he finally came back to himself, he looked at the face of the figure in his palm.
It was his own.
"So in the end...
"I was nothing more than a Viking savage."
He returned to his bedroom on the second floor.
The room was in disarray.
Empty wine bottles lay piled in one corner.
Across the broad oak desk stood more than two hundred wooden figures, arranged neatly like a Viking warband preparing for campaign.
After studying them for a moment, Gunnar placed the figure representing himself into the formation.
It stood just behind Ragnar.
Laughter drifted in through the window.
Looking outside, Gunnar saw Robert chatting happily with his friends.
The courtyard was paved with colorful marble arranged in intricate geometric patterns.
Robert and the others lounged comfortably in their chairs while five servants fanned them gently.
Another servant drew water from a rectangular reflecting pool with a bronze kettle to water the flowers.
Blue glazed tiles lined the bottom of the pool.
The clear well water reflected the azure sky and the surrounding Corinthian colonnades.
Through the pale window glass, Gunnar watched his son.
His expression was complicated.
After a long silence, he sighed.
He retrieved a packed bundle from the corner of his room and slung it over his shoulder.
Watching the guards' movements carefully, Gunnar waited for the right moment.
He climbed out onto the window ledge and scaled the exterior wall with his bare hands until he reached the roof of the main residence.
Keeping low, he crept toward the edge.
Below, two guards chatted idly, complaining about rising prices at the taverns.
The opportunity would not last.
Gunnar sprinted across the sloping roof and leapt.
He landed atop a smaller two-story building where the servants lived.
Crossing more than thirty meters of sun-baked roof tiles, he jumped into a flower bed.
Crawling through the bushes, he made an unexpected discovery.
The guard on watch nearby had fallen asleep.
Changing plans immediately, Gunnar quietly removed the keys from the sleeping man's belt and unlocked the courtyard gate.
Outside lay a spacious yard.
Warehouses stood to the left.
The stables were on the right.
After watching for several minutes, Gunnar noticed a carriage preparing to depart.
Without hesitation, he slipped beneath it, clinging tightly to the undercarriage until it rolled out through the gates.
The carriage eventually entered a busy marketplace, stopping repeatedly amid the traffic.
Taking advantage of one halt, Gunnar rolled out from underneath and disappeared into the crowded streets.
The summer sun blazed overhead.
The humid air of Ravenna soaked his coarse linen shirt with sweat.
After wandering around the harbor for about ten minutes, he found a merchant ship preparing to depart.
Five silver coins bought him a place in the hold.
Gunnar was tired of fighting other people's wars.
Whether it was Charles the Bald, Alfonso, Basil, or Vig, he no longer cared who won or lost.
He wanted only to find a quiet place in the mountains and live alone.
His war was over.
That very afternoon, a royal attendant arrived at the villa where Gunnar had been confined.
On behalf of the king, he announced that Gunnar's crimes had been pardoned.
He was hereby appointed supreme commander of the Frankish armies and ordered to report immediately to Genoa.
Vivian had guessed correctly.
Excited, she hurried into the garden, calling Gunnar's name.
"Drunk again?"
Finding no sign of him outside, the duchess climbed to the bedroom on the second floor.
The moment she opened the door, the stale smell of wine made her frown.
The room was empty.
Golden evening sunlight streamed through the swaying curtains.
Hundreds of neatly arranged wooden figures stood across the desk.
Gunnar's magnificent sword, which had accompanied him for years, still hung on the wall.
The bed was unmade.
A silver cross pendant rested casually upon the pillow.
Where had that drunk gone?
Assuming Gunnar had passed out somewhere in the gardens, Vivian ordered the servants to search the estate.
Only then did they realize...
He had escaped.
The news spread rapidly.
The gates of Ravenna were immediately sealed.
Soldiers searched house after house.
They found nothing.
On June 6, AD 872, on the eve of the Italian War, Gunnar—Duke of Normandy, Duke of Zaragoza, and the designated commander of the allied armies—vanished from Ravenna without a trace.
It was the final entry he left in the historical record.
Two days later, the Viking army reached the northern outskirts of Marseille.
This expeditionary force consisted of 52,000 field troops, organized into:
The Imperial Guard Division
1st Field Division
2nd Field Division
3rd Field Division
Cavalry Division
Artillery Regiment, equipped with 80 bronze cannons
The forces contributed by regional nobles numbered another 28,000, organized into twenty-eight garrison regiments responsible for logistical support, supply transport, and garrison duties.
That morning, the Duke of Provence led his family and the townspeople outside the city to welcome the emperor.
After waiting more than two hours, scattered cavalry scouts finally appeared on the horizon.
Behind them stretched a marching column several kilometers long.
Dust clouds billowed into the sky.
Forest-like ranks of spears glittered with countless flashes of cold steel.
Before long, the emperor rode forward with his entourage.
His very first question was:
"How much military supply has been stockpiled inside the city?"
The Shrike replied,
"Following Your Majesty's orders, grain from all across southern Frankia has been gathered in Marseille.
"Our current stores are sufficient to feed the army for twenty months, with additional shipments still arriving."
The fertile lands and favorable climate of western Frankia had supplied not only enormous quantities of grain but also large numbers of quality warhorses.
For this campaign, the empire's force of heavy cavalry exceeded five thousand, finally filling the last major weakness in Vig's army.
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