The Lay of Biarki

Set during the reign of the legendary Rolf Kraki, the lay of Biarki narrative unfolds the doom that came to Lejre, seat of the Scylding dynasty. One of the poem's main themes is the stark divergence in the loyalty and moral character of Biarki and Hiarthwar. Both owe their landholdings and marital ties to Rolf, yet their destinies take dramatically different turns. Biarki epitomizes the ideal retainer, unwavering in his allegiance to Rolf. His loyalty extends beyond the bounds of life itself, standing as a paragon of devotion and martial prowess. On the contrary, Hiarthwar succumbs to the seductive schemes of Skulda, one of Rolf's sisters. This betrayal culminates in a rebellion against the king, ultimately leading to the fall of Lejre and Rolf's demise at the hands of Hiarthwar. 

A recurring theme in the poem is the emphasis on loyal retainers repaying their master's gifts through martial service. Saxo constantly revisits the web of reciprocity between lords and their vassals, highlighting the duty of the retainer to reciprocate the generosity of their benefactor with loyalty and valor on the battlefield. The attention paid to this is both the continuation and the high point of the second book of Gesta Danorum's main theme, the virtue of liberality and the vice of avarice.

Saxo skillfully wove parallels between the lay of Biarki and the nyktomakhi in Virgil's Aeneid. Notably, the hidden cache of weapons smuggled into Lejre bears a striking resemblance to the Trojan Horse, a symbol of subterfuge and strategic deception in the Aeneid. The wagons secretly carrying weapons into Lejre is also found in sources outside of Gesta Danorum, and might have sparked Saxo's Virgillian reworking. This connection is further underscored by Saxo's choice of poetic meter, employing the grandeur of dactylic hexameter— a meter synonymous with epic works like Pharsalia, Aeneid, and Metamorphoses. Saxo's lay of Biarki was clearly intended to be a miniature Latin epic.

The story so far: 

Skulda and Hiarthwar disguised a substantial shipment of weapons as tribute destined for Denmark. Ships were laden with this deceptive cargo and set sail for Lejre. Upon Hiarthwar's arrival, the king celebrated with a magnificent feast, reveling in excess, while his guests, contrary to their usual custom, exercised caution in their drinking. As the others enjoyed a deep slumber, the Swedes stealthily emerged from their bedrooms and equipped themselves with the concealed weaponry and armour. They then attacked the palace, breached the inner chambers, and turned their swords against the unsuspecting sleeping Danes. Hialti, one of Rolf's champions, had been spending the night with his mistress in the countryside, but entered the city and plunged into the fighting. And now, the translation begins:

Passing the bedchamber of Biarki who was still asleep, he commanded him to wake with these words:

Awaken swiftly, whoever claims to be his king's friend

whether for the sake of rewards or from loyalty alone! 

Shake off your sleep princes, away with the wicked stupor! 

Heat your minds to vigilance, for each man's right hand 

shall either bestow fame or drench his indolence in disgrace! 

This night shall be either our death, or the vengeance for evil! 

I bid you not to learn the games of maidens, 

nor to stroke their tender cheeks, 

or exchange sweet kisses with brides, squeezing their delicate breasts; 

not to snatch at the pure flowing wine while you rub soft thighs 

and cast your eyes at snow-white shoulders. 

Nay, I summon you to the bitter contests of war! 

We need to fight, not trifle with love. 

There is no place here for the weak and nerveless: this situation calls for combat! 

To arms, whosoever cherishes the friendship of the king! 

The scales of war are most ready to weigh our souls. 

Therefore, let the bold obliterate their fear, and the powerful their wavering. 

Pleasure must forsake our minds and yield to weapons. 

Our reward is now glory! 

Each man is the ruler of his own fame, and can make himself illustrious by his right hand. 

There is no room for sensual arrangements: 

All must fill themselves with harshness and learn to undo the present disaster. 

None who is bound to seek out the title of glory or strives for rewards 

must be stunned by torpid dread, but should openly 

attack champions and not grow pale at the ice-cold steel.

Biarki was woken by his words. He at once summoned his servant Skalk, and spoke to him thus:

Arise, boy, and fan the flames up high!
Sweep the hearth with a stick and scatter the feeble embers.
Strike up the sparks in the dying fireplace,
rekindle the ashes and summon the smothered flames.
Compel the languid hearth to bring forth its light,
redden the glowing coals by kindling the fire with a dry log.
It will help to stretch the fingers towards the flames,
for the hand must be warm when attending a friend,
and expel the harmful blueish cold from within.

In return Hialti cried:

Sweet it is to repay the gifts received from our master,
to grip the sword and devote the blade to glory!
Behold how valour exhorts each man to follow their deserving king,
and guard his just commander with due observance.
The Teutonic swords, the shining helmets and armbands,
the mail coats reaching down to the ankles, which Rolf once gave to his men;
remember them, and sharpen your hearts for battle!
The situation demands that whatever we gained at the peak of leisure in peace,
we earn by mastery in war,
not by setting cheerful courses before gloomy affairs,
or always preferring them over hardships.
Let us seize either destiny with matching minds, my lords:
Chance shall not rule our dispositions,
for it is proper that we suffer delights and difficulties equally,
and lead bitter lives with the same countenance as when we tasted our sweet years.

Let us perform with resolute minds everything
which we uttered with drunken mouths in our cups,
and let us pursue our oaths sworn to Jupiter and the powers above.
My master is the first among Danes; let each man's excellence come to his aid.
Away from here, away you cravens!
There is need for the strong, the bold and the steadfast,
not fleeing cowards frightened by the savage fittings of war.
A captain's greatest valour often depends on his soldiers:
for the stronger the band of noblemen surround him,
the more fearlessly he enters the fray.
Let each warrior's warlike fingers take up arms,
their right hand seizing the sword hilt and clasping the shield,
let them rush at the enemy and not turn pale at his blows.
No man must expose his back to be struck by the enemy!
No man's back must welcome the sword!
Warlike chests always expose themselves to wounds.
Eagles fight their battles with their fronts exposed,
their swift, yawning beaks pushing their way the front:
You must match those birds' display, dreading no oncoming blow to your body!

Behold the raging enemy, confident in himself,
protected by steel, his face covered by a golden helmet,
driving into the middle of our wedge, certain of winning,
not fearing a rout, eager for battle.
To my wretchedness, these Swedes are bold, despising the Danes.
Behold wild-eyed and grim-looking Geats
pressing upon us with crested helmets and resounding spears.
They wield swords and double-edged axes sharpened on the whetstone
in order to finish off our doom in blood.
Why should I speak your name, Hiarthwar?
You whom Skulda filled up with evil counsel and brutalized with crime?
Why should I sing of you, abomination, cause of our catastrophy,
traitor to the glorious king, whom violent desire of ruling
has led to this wicked deed, urged by frenzy,
shielding yourself with your wife's eternal crime?
What evil delusion hurled you to blindly commit
this heinous crime against the Danes and your lord?
From whence arose such blasphemy founded on preparations of deceit?

Why do I linger? We have already tasted our last meal.
The king is dying and ultimate doom seizes the miserable city.
Our final day has dawned, unless there is someone so soft
that he fears offering himself to the blows,
so unwarlike that he dare not avenge his master,
and banishes all honours owed to a courageous heart.

You too arise, Ruta, uncover your snow-white head,
depart from your hiding place and go forth into battle.
The carnage outside calls upon you:
War shakes the palace, dire combat pummels the gates.
Iron rends mail coats, the joined rings on the chest
burst and yield under the rain of spears.
Now great hatchets have torn apart the king's shield,
now long blades resound, and the double-edged axe crackles,
hacking human shoulder-blades and cleaving through chests.
Why do our hearts tremble? Why do exhausted swords grow blunt?
Our men abandon the gate filled with the turmoil of foreigners.

After wreaking immense carnage and drenching the battleground in blood, Hialti knocked on the door of Biarki's quarters for a third time. He imagined that Biarki remained quiet out of fear, and tried to reproach his cowardice thus:

For what reason are you absent, Biarki? You are not still deep asleep?
What is the delay, I ask you? Either come out or be taken by the flames!
Choose what is preferable! Come on! Charge with me!

Bears may be warded off with fire: let us spread flames inside,
and let the blaze thrust at the doorposts first.
Let the bedchamber receive the firebrand,
let the ruined roof provide kindling to feed fire and flame.
It is right to spread the inferno to the doomed gates.

But we, who revere the king with higher devotion,
must join together in firm wedges, measure out the phalanx in closed ranks,
and advance as the king has commanded us.
He, who slew Røric the Miser, son of Bøki,
and wrapped in death the man who lacked all manliness.
For he excelled in riches and wealth, yet he was poor in spending it,
mighty in usury, but cheap in uprightness.
He considered gold stronger than armies, neglected everything in favour of profit,
and while lacking fame, collected a heap of money,
scorning the service of noble friends.
However, when he was challenged by Rolf's fleet,
he ordered his servants to unload the gold from his chests,
carry it outside the fort and scatter it before the gates.
Since he had no warriors, he offered gifts rather than battle,
believing that the enemy should be tested not by arms, but by presents,
as if he would fight with wealth alone,
and were able to conduct the battle with money instead of men.
He therefore unlocked the rich and heavy coffers,
brought out polished armrings and laden caskets,
all the greatest riches; kindling for his ruin.
With no warriors, he abandoned all that which he had kept from his fellow countrymen
and left it to be stolen by the enemy.
He, who was most averse to freely giving out even small rings,
poured out the weight of his wealth unwillingly, and plundered his ancient hoard.
Yet the wise king spurned the offered gifts,
and deprived him of both life and fortune.
This useless wealth, which the foe had greedily amassed for a long time, did not profit him.
Pious Rolf fell upon him and slew him,
captured his greatest riches, and shared among his worthy friends
all that which the avaricious hand had collected throughout the many years.
Storming an encampment more rich than powerful,
he provided his followers with remarkable plunder without bloodshed.

Nothing was too beautiful for him to give away,
or too costly to grant his followers.
He equated money with ashes, and measured his years in fame, not gain.
From this, it is evident that the king,
who has now suffered an illustrious death, passed his days in glory,
and that a manly fate has crowned his surpassing years.
Burning thus with courage while he lived, he conquered all
with the strength and might allotted to suit his magnificent build.
He entered headlong into the battle,
like a surging torrent rushing towards the sea,
eager to clasp at combat like the cloven-hoofed stag hurling itself on its rapid course.

Behold how human blood pours into coagulating pools
and the knocked-out teeth of the slaughtered are carried off
by the cascading rivers of gore and polished by abrasive sand.
Crushed into the mud they glint, as the overflowing torrent of blood
washes away broken bones and lopped-off limbs.
The river of Danish blood rises, squeezed strongly from frothing veins,
slowing to form broad pools,
a crimson tide that rolls the scattered corpses.
The tireless Hiarthwar storms the Danes, loving war,
and with raised spear he challenges them to fight.
Nevertheless, I see here in the dangers and dooms of battle,
the descendant of Frothi laughing amid the massacre,
he who once sowed gold on the fields of Fyrisvellir.

Let us too be exalted with joy in his glorious display,
following the fate of our generous father in death!
Let our voices be merry, bold and vigorous,
for it is right to scorn dread with undaunted words,
and seek out death with deeds worthy of remembrance!
Heart and mouth, forsake your fear!
We must display both with unshaken effort, so that no one is able to reproach us
for at any point showing any sign of wavering, any sign of fear.
Let the drawn sword balance the weight of the earned gifts!
Glory follows the dead,
fame will survive the crumbling ashes,
and what perfect courage has accomplished now shall never die.
What are you doing behind closed doors? Why are they locked and bolted shut?
I call for you now for the third time: Biarki, I command you,
emerge from our enclosure, depart from your dwelling!

Biarki replied: 

Tell me why, warlike Hialti, why do you summon me,
Rolf's brother-in-law, with such loud cries?
Whoever utters boastful words and calls others to arms,
must match his speech with fearless feats,
and back up his talking with testimonials.
But wait while I arm myself and don the grim garb of war.
Now I fasten the sword to my side,
now I cover my body with mail coat and helmet,
my temples receive the headgear, and unbending iron hides my chest.

No one is less anxius than I to burn behind barred doors,
to go to the pyre within his own home.
Although I myself was born on an island, my place of birth a narrow strip of land,
I am bound to repay the king for the dozen holdings
that he granted me for my glory.
Heed me, warriors!
No one approaching his death shall cover his body with a coat of mail!
The last thing that should be fastened is ringed iron!
Turn your shields on to your backs, let us battle with bared breasts,
thicken every part of your biceps with gold,
put armrings on your right arms to make you measure out mightier blows
and deal dire wounds!

No one must withdraw a foot! Each man must devote himself
to eagerly advancing on the hostile swords and menacing spears,
so that we can avenge our beloved lord!
Happy above all is he who can deal vengenace for a crime this wicked,
and punish the deceiver's sin with his righteous sword!

Behold, I certainly believe that I have pierced the ferocious Stag
with my Teutonic sword named Snirtir,
from which I received the name Warlike
when I vanquished Agner, son of Ingiald, and brought back the trophy.
Høking shattered as it struck my head,
the blade broke as it bit, and would have dealt deeper wounds,
if the edge had been forged from better steel.
In return, I dismembered his left arm, part of his left side,
and down to the right foot, my sword sweeping down his limbs,
hewing him open and plunging deep into the middle of his ribs.
By Hercules, I have never seen a braver man than he:
He sank down to the ground half-conscious, and leaning on his elbow,
he welcomed death with a smile, scorned his demise with roaring laughter,
and entered the world of Elysium with delight.
Such great courage in a man,
to unfeelingly conceal his moment of death with a grin,
and with a happy face suppress the greatest suffering of body and mind.

Now I have once more with the same sword
torn up the vital fibers of one born of high lineage,
and buried my blade inside his entrails.
This one was the son of a king, he shone with the blood of his forefathers,
he was distinguished for his talents and resplendent in his youthful years.
No chainmail could help him,
no blade, no polished shield-boss:
my sword possesses such vigorous strength that no defence can stand against it.

Where are Götaland's commanders and Hiarthwar's warriors?
Let them come and pay for their courage with blood!
Who hurl, who whirl the spears, but the descendants of kings?
The freeborn initiate war: the most renowned nobility execute battle,
a thing commoners never dare pursue,
only their commanders risk the attempt.
Illustrious princes perish.
Behold, mighty Rolf, your magnates have fallen, your loyal freeborn falter.
Pluto seizes for doom no base and obscure race,
not the cheap souls of plebeians, but grasps the powerful
and fills up Phlegethon with famous figures.

I can't recall a contest where the swords were crossed as quickly,
and more blows were dealt for blows.
I receive three for each of mine; thus the Götar repay us with mutual wounds,
thus the mightier right arm of the enemy
avenge the punishing strokes with compound interest.
And yet I have alone in strenous battle
consigned so many corpses to death,
that the likeness of a hill would rise up if the lopped-off limbs were piled together,
the heaped cadavers would assume the look of a barrow.
But what is he doing, he who not long ago commanded me to come forth,
highly lauding and praising himself,
while bruising others with haughty words and sowing bitter insults,
as if he housed twelve lives in one body?

To this Hialti replied: 

Though I enjoy small support, I am not far away.
Help is needed here where we stand too.
Nowhere has there ever been more need of the might of a picked band of warriors resolute in battle.
Now hard sword edges and spearpoints
have torn my shield to pieces,
the ravenous steel consumed the splinters bit by bit in the fray.
This affair is its own foremost witness, self-evident.
Rumour submits to sight, and the eye is more trustworthy than the ear.
For the straps of my broken shield is all that is left,
cut to pieces in a circle, only the perforated shield boss remains.
Are you eager now, Biarki, even though you delayed more than what was right?
Will you compensate for your hesitation with courage?

To this Biarki said: 

Have you still not finished nagging and badgering me with insults?
Many things have a habit of causing delays.
The reason for my lingering just now is that a sword got in the way,
which the Swedish foe plunged into my breast with an overpowering push.
The wielder of the sword hilt did not drive it frugally:
for though I was armoured,
it penetrated me as it would have a naked and defenceless body
passing through the hard covering of iron as if it were soft water,
the hard mass of my mail coat could offer me no protection at all.

But now, where is he, whom the common people call Othin,
powerful in arms, always content with one eye?
Tell me, Ruta, I beg you, is there anywhere you can see him?

Ruta replied:

Bring your eyes closer and look through my arms akimbo,
but first you must hallow your gaze with the sign of victory,
if you wish to safely recognize Mars face to face.

Biarki said:
If I am able to behold the fearsome husband of Frigg,
he will by no means leave Lejre unharmed,
no matter how much he is protected by his white shield and turns round his tall horse:
it is right in war to knock down the war god.

Let a magnificent ruin befall those who fall before the eyes of the king.
Let us strive for obtaining an honourable death while life lasts,
and let our hands reap a glorious demise.
I shall die overwhelmed at the head of my slain ruler,
while you will perish and fall face down at his feet,
so that anyone seeing the heaped corpses will understand
how we repaid the gold received from our lord.
We shall be the plunder of ravens and the meal of greedy eagles,
the gluttonous bird will feed upon the feast of our corpses.
It is proper that fearless nobles fall in war thus,
surrounding the illustrious king in a common death.