Saint Olaf And The Assassination Of Eilif The Gaut

Saint Olaf (King Olaf II Haraldsson of Norway) was not a typical saint. Before becoming a supporter and spreader of Christianity, he was also a Viking and a conqueror who, around 1015, proclaimed himself king of an independent Norway. In the fifteen years prior to Saint Olaf’s bid for power, Norway had been divvied up between jarls who paid homage either to Sweden or Denmark. Saint Olaf, the battle-hardened and experienced Viking, beat these jarls into submission or exile, and toured his newly won kingdom, from region to region, forcing out foreign tax collectors and making sure all sections of Norway knew that they had a new king. Many regions submitted willingly to Olaf’s dominion, some needed coercion, while others wanted help ridding themselves of Swedish or Danish agents before they could openly join Saint Olaf’s cause. Of that latter category was a community in the southeast borderlands of Norway. This group, according to the Icelandic historian Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), lived in a location called Ranríki, which was at the time dominated by a Swedish nobleman by the name of Eilíf the Gaut. Saint Olaf, in order to gain the support of Ranríki, would embark on a formidable campaign of espionage, infiltration, and finally assassination.

When Saint Olaf arrived in the vicinity of Ranríki, he apparently found the inhabitants of the region split between those who wanted to remain under Swedish influence and those who wished to join Olaf. There was reportedly enough sympathy for Sweden in the region, or at least fear of the Swedish nobleman Eilíf the Gaut, that the local faction in favor of Norwegian independence was hesitant to voice open support for Saint Olaf. A region with such a split in allegiance could have been a problem for Saint Olaf if he had wandered blindly into that political quagmire. Fortunately for him, he had an effective system of spies and informants. Using those subtle assets, Saint Olaf was able to discover and contact Brynjólf “the Camel,” a leadership figure among the locals who were in favor of separating from Swedish influence. Eilíf the Gaut, in contrast, apparently did not know that Brynjólf supported Norwegian independence, much less that the man had made contact with Saint Olaf.

The secret of Brynjólf the Camel’s pro-independence sympathies was pivotal to Saint Olaf’s mission in Ranríki. Saint Olaf reportedly sent with Brynjólf twelve special warriors, who were led by a certain Thórir the Long. These warriors were said to have disguised themselves as farmers and, when Eilíf the Gaut began rallying his supporters in response to Saint Olaf’s arrival in the region, Brynjólf and the disguised agents infiltrated the pro-Swedish militia. As Brynjólf the Camel and Thórir the Long were both capable men, Eilíf the Gaut brought them into his inner circle and allowed them close access to his person. At this point, Saint Olaf’s agents could have assassinated poor, unsuspecting Eilíf at any opportune time. Yet, Saint Olaf apparently wanted the final, decisive blow to occur in a public and showy event.

As the story goes, Brynjólf the Camel and Thórir the Long were able to convince Eilíf to meet with Saint Olaf near a cliff for peace talks. Saint Olaf reportedly took up position atop the defensible cliff, while Eilíf the Gaut arrived with his militia of farmers, as well as a smaller loyal band of warriors from Sweden, and set up on the beach below the steep slope. Although the cliffside separated the two forces, both camps were within speaking (or shouting) distance, allowing for negotiations to occur. Saint Olaf, or his marshal, opened up the talks by delivering a speech, saying the typical things that would be expected if they were truly there to seek peace. When the speech was over, Eilíf the Gaut readied himself to deliver his own speech.

Unfortunately, Eilíf reportedly did not get a chance to utter a single line. According to Snorri Sturluson, “Eilíf arose and started to speak. In the same instant Thórir the Long stood up, drew his sword, and struck Eilíf on the neck so that his head flew off” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 61). When Eilíf the Gaut was assassinated, Brynjólf the Camel and his pro-independence comrades showed their allegiance, attacking the Swedish warriors who had accompanied Eilíf to the meeting. Before long, the startled band off Swedes fled, leaving behind a shocked militia of Sweden-sympathetic farmers to the mercy of Saint Olaf and Brynjólf the Camel. As the story goes, Saint Olaf calmed the confused masses and convinced them to submit to him without any further bloodshed.

Brynjólf’s role in the successful operation in Ranríki did not go unnoticed by Saint Olaf. The saint-king reportedly gave the man a gold-inlaid sword as a gift, as well as a large manorial estate called Vettaland. The two reportedly remained life-long friends.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Saga of Olaf illustration, by Christian Krohg (1852–1925). [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Olaf-II-Haraldsson  

The Clandestine Capture Of Jarl Hakon Eriksson

After years of mercenary work and Viking activity in Britain and Spain, an ambitious Norwegian nobleman named Olaf Haraldsson sailed back to his homeland. His return came in 1014 or 1015, and, at the time, Norway was ripe for the picking—the Danish King Sweyn Forkbeard had died in 1014 and the Dane-backed Norwegian Jarl Eirik Hakonarson (who had dominated Norway since 1000) traveled to Britain in order to help Sweyn Forkbeard’s successor, Canute the Great, maintain power in England. Jarl Eirik had left behind his son, Hakon Eiriksson, to hold the fort in Norway, but Jarl Hakon was unprepared for Olaf Haraldsson’s return, much less his immediate bid to seize the throne of Norway.

According to Norwegian-Icelandic tradition, Olaf Haraldsson crossed from the British Isles to the middle of Norway with a band of over 200 well-equipped warriors on two ships. The island of Selje was reportedly where he made landfall. While there, he must have sent out spies or reconnected with his family’s intelligence network, for Olaf Haraldsson learned the exact location of Jarl Hakon Eiriksson, as well as the route that the jarl would be sailing in his ship.

At that time, Olaf’s two-ship fleet reportedly was not very intimidating, for the nobleman was said to have exchanged his warships for the most dismissive of merchant vessels before leaving Britain. As such, Olaf Haraldsson apparently believed that Jarl Hakon Eiriksson would underestimate, or completely ignore, Olaf’s force if the two should meet at sea. With this assumption in mind, Olaf Haraldsson scanned the waterways along Jarl Hakon’s predicted path to pinpoint an ideal spot for a confrontation. He reportedly chose the narrow stretch of water between the island of Atleö and the Norwegian mainland as the place to enact his plan.

When Olaf arrived at his destination, he was said to have put one of his merchant ships next to the island and the other by the mainland beach, aligned but at opposite ends of the waterway. Each ship dropped something into the water that sank like an anchor. With everything in place, Olaf’s crews simply waited for the jarl to appear.

As the story goes, Jarl Hakon Eiriksson rowed into the waterway with a fully-manned warship, unaware that Olaf Haraldsson had returned to Norway, much less that the man was just upstream. As Olaf had predicted, the jarl apparently paid little attention to the two merchant vessels that were loitering at opposite ends of the narrows. Without taking any precautions, the jarl’s ship continued through the channel, eventually rowing right between Olaf’s two ships. At that very moment, so the story goes, the crews on Olaf’s ships used windlasses to quickly pull up the lines they had dropped into the water. As it happened, what they had dropped had not been anchors or fishing nets. Instead, what they hauled up was much more nefarious—both ships reportedly winched out of the water a separate end of a single thick cable.

The cable reportedly caught the keel of Hakon Eiriksson’s ship and managed to lift or twist the end the hull just enough to flood the prow of Hakon’s ship with water. Before long, the ship sank or overturned, sending the jarl and his guards into the water. With his plan successful, Olaf Haraldsson rowed over to the shipwreck and fished the soggy jarl out of the depths. As the story goes, Olaf spared Hakon Eiriksson’s life in exchange for the jarl renouncing his authority in Norway. Hakon Eiriksson reportedly accepted the deal, and after his ship was hauled back up from the sea, he joined the court of King Canute. As for Olaf, he continued with his plan to become the ruler of Norway, eventually becoming King Olaf II (r. 1015-1018), also known as Saint Olaf.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Ready For The Campaign (The Varangian Sea), by Nicholas Roerich c. 1910, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.

Emperor Wu’s Attempted Trap For The Xiongnu At Mayi

The predecessors of Emperor Wu (r. 141-87 BCE) usually took a defensive approach to dealing with the Xiongnu confederation of tribes that lived in the eastern Eurasian Steppe. Previous emperors often resorted to tribute payments, marriages and trade to keep the populous nomads happy, usually only martialing their armies against the Xiongnu on occasions when the nomads raided imperial territory. Emperor Wu, although he initially followed the precedent of peace and tribute, eventually decided to shift the Han Empires' foreign policy with the Xiongnu from a defensive stance to a state of active hostility.

Emperor Wu’s first move against the Xiongnu occurred in 134 BCE. The plan must have been in the works for a long time, for it all hinged on an agent of the emperor named Nie Wengyi who had gone to the Xiongnu and built trust with them by playing the role of a smuggler. By trading contraband to the Xiongnu, Nie Wengyi came to be known and trusted by various nomad leaders, and around 134 BCE, he had finally gained the ear of the Xiongnu leader, the Shanyu. With the agent finally in position, the emperor could move into the final phases of the plan.

When the time was right, Nie Wengyi was instructed to offer the Shanyu a fateful proposal. Following an order from the Han government, Nie Wengyi went to the Shanyu and offered to help the Xiongnu take the wealthy city of Mayi, in Yanmen province. The agent apparently claimed that he could offer the Shanyu a variety of routes to securing Mayi.  He claimed that he could assassinate the high officials to disorganize the town, and he further proposed that he would likely be able to convince the city of Mayi to surrender to the Xiongnu peacefully once the loyal officials were dead. Nie Wengyi’s deep-cover relationship-building paid off, for the Shanyu responded to the plan with eager excitement instead of caution. Yet, the Xiongnu leader did make one condition—Nie Wengyi needed to assassinate the officials in Mayi before the Xiongnu would make their move. To prove that the officials were dead, Nie Wengyi was told to hang their decapitated heads from the city walls for Xiongnu spies to see.

With his mission near completion, Nie Wengyi returned to Mayi and updated all those involved in the plot on his progress. Presumably after waiting enough time for the emperor to prepare, Nie Wengyi eventually made true his promise to hang some heads on the city wall. Yet, instead of government officials, the heads belonged to local condemned criminals. When the Xiongnu spies in the region reported to their leader that there were indeed heads hanging from the walls of Mayi, the Shanyu quickly pulled together a force reportedly numbering 100,000 horsemen and crossed into Han territory at Wuzhou.

The Shanyu’s enthusiasm, however, soon began to give way to caution as he ventured further into Han territory. His concerns especially began to increase when he noticed that the countryside was eerily absent of human activity. There were no farmhands, travelers, or loitering commoners to be seen. Animals, however, were apparently roaming free and left untended in the fields. Unnerved by the sight, the Shanyu delayed his advance against Mayi and instead attacked a signal beacon station in Wuzhou. Unlike the rest of the countryside, the Xiongnu found the station still inhabited, and, as luck would have it, they managed to find and capture a local defense official in the station.

Unfortunately for Emperor Wu, the captured official knew something of the emperor’s plan at Mayi and, under interrogation, he told the Xiongnu everything he had heard. The Shanyu was shocked to learn that the seemingly empty region his horsemen were traveling through was actually in no way devoid of life. The eerie ghost town atmosphere was caused by the commoners being quarantined to their communities. Yet, despite the absence of the commoners, the Shanyu discovered that the region around Mayi was much more overpopulated than it appeared—according to Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE), Emperor Wu had preemptively hidden over 300,000 Han troops in the valleys around Mayi, hoping to trap the Xiongnu when they began to enter the city. In addition, yet more troops were coming from the region of Dai to attack the Xiongnu baggage train.

Tipped off to the danger, the Shanyu immediately led his forces out of Han territory. The section of the Han forces sent from Dai to attack the baggage train of the Xiongnu could have possibly cut off the Shanyu’s retreat, but when they learned that they would not be fighting just the baggage train, but the whole Xiognu horde, the warriors from Dai refused to fight. With the trap at Mayi thwarted, and the division from Dai purposefully keeping out of the way of the Xiongnu, the Han forces could only pursue the invaders to the border without inflicting any damage on their foe. It was an embarrassing debacle that eventually caused Wang Hui, one of the masterminds behind the trap, to commit suicide.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (scene of the Chinese Campaign against Annam (Vietnam) 1788 - 1789, painted by a collaboration of Chinese and European painters c. late 18th century, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Records of the Grand Historian (Shi ji) by Sima Qian, translated by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.

The Attempted Assassination Of Northumbrian King Edwin And The Easter Sacrifice Of Lilla

As Easter Day of year 626 approached, the powerful King Edwin of Northumbria had a lot on his mind. He had recently married Æthelburh of Kent, and their first child was fast approaching. Along with thoughts of childbirth, Edwin was musing over the teachings of a certain Paulinus, a Roman missionary and newly-consecrated bishop who had accompanied Æthelburh to Northumbria as her personal chaplain and spiritual advisor. Despite pressure from his wife and his wife’s priestly companion, King Edwin was still indecisive on whether to become a Christian convert, himself, and he was also unsure on whether to grant his wife’s wish for her unborn child to be baptized and raised in her faith. In matters such as these, the king preferred to make his decisions only after long periods of deliberation. An unexpected guest, however, would shock King Edwin from his pensive reverie.

On Easter Day, a man known as Eomer arrived at the court of King Edwin and announced that he had an important message to deliver. With charisma and confidence, Eomer talked his way into receiving an audience with the king and eventually was introduced into the throne room. The messenger was reportedly slow to reveal his purpose—he began delivering a rehearsed story to the Northumbrian monarch, all the while mentally preparing himself for his real mission. At a random moment during his speech, the messenger abruptly pulled out a concealed blade that was long enough to pass through a man’s chest. With this weapon drawn, Eomer charged for the vulnerable King Edwin, who was only a short distance away.

Just as the assassin was about to reach his target, one of the king’s thanes made a quick decision. Lilla, a trusted courtier and a good friend of the king, threw himself in front Edwin at the last moment. Unfortunately for the thane, the assassin had committed himself to the attack and his extended blade plunged with incredible force into and through Lilla’s chest. The momentum of the blow pushed the selfless thane backward against the king, and the assassin’s blade protruded far enough out of Lilla’s back to give Edwin a flesh wound. Before Eomer could push the dying Lilla aside and finish off the king, the other courtiers in the room finally recovered from their shock and joined the fray. The assassin managed to strike down one more member of the court, a certain Fordhere, before he was dealt with by the king’s men. Specifics on Eomer’s fate are unfortunately vague—sources such as Bede, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, and Florence of Worcester did not mention if the assassin was killed outright or captured alive.

In the aftermath of Eomer’s attack, both Lilla and Fordhere died. King Edwin’s own wound was serious enough for him to need some time to rest, but he regained his health quickly. Yet, fate would not let Edwin’s adrenaline level wane that Easter. It was said that the king’s wife, Æthelburh, went into labor that very day and gave birth during the night to a daughter named Eanfled. Her birth, and the assassination attempt, were reportedly a significant event in convincing Edwin to convert to Christianity. As the story goes, the pagan king vowed that he would allow his new daughter to be baptized and raised as a Christian if God helped him track down and punish those who were responsible for the assassination attempt.

King Edwin’s investigators made quick progress in their search. They were ultimately able to determine not only the kingdom but also the specific nobleman who was responsible for the assassin—Cwichelm, the son of King Cynegils of Wessex (r. 611-643), was charged as the mastermind in sources favoring both Northumbria and Wessex. King Edwin of Northumbria reportedly waited only as long as he needed to recover from his wound before launching a reprisal invasion of Wessex. According to Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, King Edwin “either slew or forced to surrender all those who had plotted his murder” (Book II, chapter 9). Interestingly, King Cynegils of Wessex and his son Cwichelm were both in the latter category of submission, not execution. Keeping his word, Edwin allowed his daughter to be raised as a Christian and he, along with many of his courtiers, were baptized a year later in 627.

Unfortunately for King Edwin, escaping the assassin Eomer was only a momentary delay in his grisly fate. In 633, Penda of Mercia and Cadwallon of Gwynned defeated the forces of Northumbria at the Battle of Hatfield Chase, in which King Edwin fell in battle. After the death of the king, Æthelburh and Bishop Paulinus fled back to Kent.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (The arrest of William Hastings illustrated by  James William Edmund Doyle (1822–92), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle translated by Benjamin Thorpe in 1861 and republished by Cambridge University Press, 2012.
• Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (and relevant letters), translated by Leo Sherley-Pride, R. E. Latham and D. H. Farmer. New York: Penguin Classics, 2003. 
• The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester translated by Thomas Forester. London: Petter and Galpin, originally published 1854. 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Edwin 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Cynegils 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Saint-Paulinus  

Frumentarii—The Wheat-Collecting Spies Of Ancient Rome

The Romans always had some sort of spies or espionage agents, albeit usually decentralized and directed by individual generals or politicians. Wherever the Roman legions went, the military leadership needed to get a lay of the land and to find out information about enemy positions and numbers. Roman Senators and politicians, too, had their own private informant networks that allowed them to get the latest gossip about their rivals. Therefore, there were always spies all over the Roman Empire, yet these earliest spies were usually only reporting to their direct employer (the specific senator or general), not the army or country, as a whole.

In the early days, the Roman military used its more subtle soldiers for intelligence gathering. Eventually, early military commanders, such as Julius Caesar, began to rely on a specific group of soldiers for work that needed to be done in the shadows. These were the speculatores, or speculators, which were used as couriers, spies and secret police.

Yet, when the Republic of Rome submitted to the rule of authoritarian dictators, a new generation of spies was introduced into the population. During either the reign of Emperor Domitian (r. 81-96) or Emperor Hadrian (r. 117-138), the frumentarii were formed. These men were military logistics officers that specialized in gathering, distributing and escorting supplies of wheat, or other resources, throughout the empire. Their headquarters was located at Castra Peregrina, in Rome, but their work brought them into constant contact with the average population in the countryside of the Roman Empire. The job description of these logistical officers was eventually expanded far beyond searching the empire for wheat; soon they were also couriers, spies, tax collectors, and police.

The frumentarii eventually became a hated presence in the provinces of Rome. The unpopularity of the organization grew to such an extent that Emperor Diocletian (r. 284-305) had the frumentarii disbanded. That is not to say he gave up on a more centralized form of intelligence gathering. Quite the opposite—he created the agentes in rebus, translated as something akin to “general agents.” These agents were a bigger and better iteration of the frumentarii, but had a few different key characteristics. While the frumentarii were considered soldiers, the agentes in rebus were deemed to be civilians. Similarly, the agents did not report to a military leader, but answered to an interesting official known as the Master of Offices. Another key difference was that the agents were a bit more open about having a role in gathering intelligence.

The agentes in rebus expanded on the work done previously by the frumentarii. As well as working the usual jobs, such as fulfilling the roles of couriers, spies, tax collectors and police, the agents also worked as construction supervisors and even ambassadors.

Interestingly, the Roman leadership focused their more professional intelligence organizations mainly on their own population in the empire, rather than on foreign threats. Generals and military leaders on the frontiers of the empire usually kept using their personal scouts and speculators to gain information about the enemy. The more organized groups of spies, like the frumentarii and the agentes in rebus, however, seemed to have been primarily directed at searching for dissent in the empire and uncovering internal conspiracies.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Top picture attribution: (Relief of Trajan's Column attributed to Apollodorus of Damascus (50–130), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Transnationalism in Ancient and Medieval Societies: The Role of Cross-Border Trade and Travel by Michael C. Howard. North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2012.  
• http://www.historynet.com/espionage-in-ancient-rome.htm 
• http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/brill-s-new-pauly/frumentarii-e415470#  
• http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803095355824 
• http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/brill-s-new-pauly/agentes-in-rebus-e107670