King Snorri: Letters from Ole in Croatia

[Grond]

To King Snorri the Magnificent
Monarque puissant et type impressionnant:
You may wonder why I greet you in French, but if you recall, French is really the new Latin, and we should probably all get to like speaking it. I blame Charlemagne. Perhaps we make Danish the language of choice, although we’ll always make sure our bathrooms are labeled in German, since the German tourists won’t know where the jakes are, otherwise.

I write you this cold day of October from Croatia, where you have sent me to examine the great general Mislav of those impetuous Byzantines. Noting for the moment, my liege, and if you’ll curb your royal impatience if I diverge from the subject at hand, it is not for nothing that in future centuries I am sure “Byzantine” will become synonymous with “confusing.”

As you have tasked me with the important task of discovering Mislav’s weaknesses and flaws, I now report to you the success of this conceit. First, we took a good look around the court. This fellow Mislav enjoys a hard castle. Not a rush in the joint, and if he managed to pillage any carpets from Turkey, he didn’t bring them to Croatia. And why would he? This place is a pit. The Croatians are a surly lot, bitter and angry about the invasions they’ve experienced a dozen times in so many years. You’d think they’d figure out a way to profit from this - maybe Gojslav’s Used Armor Supplies and Discount Leeches and Medicine (Licensed by Galen).

And there wasn’t a young page in the place. No, this wasn’t like your son Erik’s castle, where the soft boys all wear silk bloomers and lounge about on pillows fanning themselves. Er, that is, not to imply that your son Erik isn’t the manliest man ever to roam Scandinavia! God forbid, your grace, that I should think of anything else, and know that every son and daughter his suffering wife Ingrid produces is shot from his cannon, if you’ll excuse my new-fangled terminology.

Regardless, perhaps this fellow Mislav was smart enough to send away temptation. So we dressed Ragnar, the dwarf changeling, in soft clothing and gave him a haircut with bowl #5, and boy did he look sharp. If I was a priest, I’d have to jump in the moat to keep myself from acting on my urges. Ragnar minced through the palace, and would you believe it, my liege, this Mislav didn’t bat an eyelid.

Unfortunately, Ragnar did gain the attention of a scurrilous local fellow, Ratimir the Inquisitioner, who has taken poor Ragnar in for some inquisitional instruction. I am informed that Ratimir likes to stroke Ragnar’s chin and call him “Svetislava,” and sometimes Ragnar says it hurts when he makes water. You should see the two of them coo endearments at each other in Latin! Well, they like to say in Croatia, “If strokes are good to give, they are good to receive.” Hahahaha! Croats are such kidders. Then they kill you. But no matter.

I then decided to see if he’d murdered anyone. Did any nobles disappear lately? Anyone over for dinner suddenly keel over while ingesting the “mushrooms”? It was here I felt my first gains, and suffered my biggest setback, for it turns out that thirty-five nobles had met their end at his tables. Further examination revealed that the eggplant used in the moussaka had gone a little too purple, and it was just an unfortunate incident at dinner. Apparently, the head cook, a fellow named Drzislav, manages to poison a few people every other dinner. I noted that Mislav gets his food from a different source, but we might want to look into hiring Drzislav to do some state dinners when the French come to visit in Stockholm.

Incidentally, I’ve been really enjoying the local reading material. Have you read “The Vinodol Codex?” I simply cannot put it down. These Croatians really know how to write a thriller.

I took a look at Mislav’s books, after a healthy bribe to his clerk. Apparently the man is an utter amateur, for there isn’t a single thing out of place. This reads nothing like your books, my liege, where everyone has their hand in the pot. Just kidding, my liege, just kidding.

I was able to poke around (a Ragnar joke, my liege, get it, poke? That’s inquisitional humor, your majesty) Mislav’s quarters, and there were no barnyard animals in palatial rooms with abused looks upon their faces.

I have concluded, thus, that Mislav is the worst kind of general: Competent, brave, and really dull.

I await your posting to a new place. My hopes are that you will send me back to Saxonia, for I have a fondness for beer and bratwurst, and the food here makes my gout so much worse, even if Drzislav makes a pretty tasty pork half shanks Podravina style. Ragnar, the midget dwarf, will probably remain here, as he tells me he is considering taking holy orders and becoming a choir boy for the inquisition. I’m proud of him, your grace, I always thought he would be misshapen monster with no career, but here he lands himself a Grand Inquisitioner. He says he even gets to wear Ratimir’s obnoxiously large green hat when they play their little game of confessor. Guess who is the penitent in the game?

Written this 25th day of October, in the year of Lord 1351, from Croatia.
Ole the spy

[Martok]

[picks self up off the floor]

Oh my dear god that was funny. It was so wrong in so many ways, but I couldn't stop laughing. I commend Ole on his excellent report!

[Grond]

Good my liege:
I write you from sunny Sardinia, where by your most gracious hand we have been sent. Indeed, “we,” your majesty, for Ragnar and Ratimir were discovered playing a game they called “Scottish Sheepherder,” and we were forced to leave Zagreb a little more quickly than we anticipated we’d need to. Luckily, an Italian barque, the A.M.B.* Apertoculo was leaving the same time as us, and we were able to get passage. These Italian sailors are a randy lot! There are no women allowed on board ship, because they are bad luck. They are, however, inordinately fond of Ragnar, and he has made many fast friends on the ship. Since this meant I needed not share a hammock with him, I was happy that he had so many good friends; and, of course, he smells of burnt hair and flesh all the time, ever since his most holy work with the inquisition and Ratimir. Happily, I believe Ratimir was able to escape Zagreb and get work as a tutor to the French monarchy, though for some reason most of his hair had accidentally caught fire, an accident with a candle he’d said. I don’t know if these rumors are true. If they are, though, I am happy for him. As for Ragnar, they have a clever nickname for him, something like “finokeyo,” though who can tell with how these people spell. The Captain informed me that we’d have to leave the ship at Sardinia as Ragnar was so popular, the entire crew would have parties below deck for hours at a time and nothing was getting done. The final insult was when one of the huge jars of olive oil in the cargo bay somehow ended up on Ragnar and half the crew.

But enough about Ragnar. Sardinia is beautiful, although it disturbs me that the women sometimes have more facial hair than the men. Also, everyone mispronounces my name and calls me oh-lay, which is a woman’s hand cream from France, not ooh-lah which is what every good Norwegian boy knows my name is pronounced as.

My good friend and colleague Sven is doing good work here. As you recall, we spent 3215 florins to purchase the loyalty of the eight military units on this miserable island, not a few of which must have been women judging by the prodigious facial hair. Their willingness to sell themselves to any country so cheaply beggars description, but has produced thus this problem: It seems the loyalty of most of the commanders is seriously in question. Sven is exhausting himself with sham trials 12 hours a day, and has hardly a moment to see to the bedding of his lovely mustachioed Sardinian maiden. After running through a dozen commanders in each troop, we have yet to see a single one who isn’t surly and willing to sell him (her?) self to the first fish merchant who sails into the harbor. I thought French whores were greedy! At least the French prostitutes pronounce my name correctly, and for an extra half-florin they’ll wash you afterwards. You should get queen Hedda to do that sometime, but make sure she warms the water first, or we’ll be out looking for a new queen, believe you me.

So, the Sardinians are disloyal, miserable, foul-tempered, and hot-headed. They are also of this wretched religion called Islam. As far as I can make it out, more than a few have said “America is the running dog lackey of the great Satan.” No one seems to know who this America fellow is, and the state of affairs in the inquisition department here is quite shoddy. Perhaps a few inquisitors might come down for some vacation time and some training seminars? You could probably stir up this population quickly by showing them the value of turning in heretics to be burned in the most holy inquisition. As you know, my liege, the fruit of the sin of heresy is the plague. However, that is not my field, just an observation that we might pursue a religious angle on this, as Sven could use a break from his usual duties. Trial, trial, trial, how does he do it? But he must continue, for, as the saying goes, “Never trust a Dolomite with a sharp stick,” so one does what one must.

There is a great Italian fleet that sits astride the harbor here. A dozen ships, none of them ever go to sea, they congregate here instead. The boats all have graffiti: “If you can see this, yousa too close,” and “you don’t come here to hunt, do you” with the picture of a large grinning bear. I don’t understand Italians, sir, not one bit. The Italian sailors all have girlfriends-- at least, I think they’re girls, the facial hair makes determination of gender difficult sometimes-- and there are great mobs of small Sardinian bastard children, each with a miniature mustache, running about. Perhaps, my liege, we could rid ourselves of this mighty plague of small children by sending them off to fight the Turk? We could call it a “children’s crusade,” or mayhap something else that your advertising people can come up with that’s nice and catchy.

I hope all is well in the greater kingdom of the north. I miss those pleasant evenings spent huddled around a too small fire, chewing on whale fat and shivering and telling stories about how Skapti liked to torture small reindeer before he became an inquisitor. I believe God rewarded us for letting him have such a holy man as Skapti, because all those gruesome murders stopped precisely when Skapti became an inquisitioner, and this tells me that God was pleased and smote the murderer with his wrath to reward us. Give my best to Skapti, tell him I heard about his recent burning of 3000 French heretics in Flanders. I don’t think it’s because they’re really that heretical; Skapti never liked their cuisine.

Also, my liege, I enclose for your amusement a Sardinian postcard. That’s a Sardinian rider sitting on a Sardinian ass (not just his own), and there’s a quote from Bias on the back: “There is a great abundance of disasters.”

Warmly,
Your Spy,
Ole

* A.M.B. The Italian for “Atsa My Boat”

[Ciaran]

Oh, this is fantastic, almost on leve with your introduction of Snorri the Magnificent to this forum

No one seems to know who this America fellow is

[Vladimir]

Amerigo Vespuchi, don't quote me on the spelling. I think he's an Italian chap. He may be the skipper on one of those boats near Sicily, the one with that madman who wants to sail off the edge of the Earth (stoopid heretic).

[miho]

Amerigo Vespuchi, don't quote me on the spelling. I think he's an Italian chap. He may be the skipper on one of those boats near Sicily, the one with that madman who wants to sail off the edge of the Earth (stoopid heretic).

He was an Italian sailor in the 16th century and he's the one America was named after. He discovered that America was a new continent, while Columbo thought he got to India.

[miho]

Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post

This place is a pit. The Croatians are a surly lot, bitter and angry about the invasions they’ve experienced a dozen times in so many years.

You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.

[AntiochusIII]

Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post

You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.

Calm down, friend. He's just a humorous fictional writer. If anyone' going to be offended, it's the Danes, Swedish, the Spanish, the Sardinians, French around the foot of the Pyrenees (around Toulouse) and I guess the modern Lithuanians/Latvians as well.

So...

He's ridiculing everybody, not just Croatians. Take it with a pinch of salt. Salt was important in the Medieval world; it still is.

[miho]

I said I liked his posts and that they're funny and that what he's writing is fiction. I didn't mean to be so negative. Just keep up the good the good work Grond. Ps. I posted who Snorri Sturlusson was on one of your threads.

[Grond]

Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post

You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.

Miho:

My apologies. I bear nothing but the greatest respect to all of the people who populate this message board, so if anyone takes particular offense to the messages, I bear the responsibility for the content and apologize for any offense, as none was intended.

My narrator tends to take a negative view about every place he visits. Croatia in the middle ages was probably no worse or no better than most any other place. It does have an appalling tendency to suffer from its primary location which inspires invasions and such, more so than, say, Finland. What sort of idiot would invade Finland???! (Apologies to any Fins or Russians out there, the first because I implied no one would want Finland, and the second because I implied they were idiots for invading in WWII. Then again, invading Finland was a disaster, which sort of leads one to the conclusion that the Russians (in this case, that mass murderer Stalin) was a huge boob. That was an unfortunate business all the way around. Also, apologies to anyone who actually like Stalin. The man's record isn't tres sterling, is it?)

As for the byzantine business, that was a fiction based on the game on which the letters are from. Ole visited Croatia to get the dirt on a Byzantine general, but the game rarely mimics reality, does it? The Hungarians, in this instance, are cowering in Hungary and thinking about meat stew and important Hungarian thoughts, whatever those might be when you're herding horses around on the steppes or what have you in Hungary.

And give me some credit for at least trying to research the topic enough to put in those touches of home that will make a native laugh, such as the eggplant jokes. Those DID make you laugh, didn't they? The saying was also accurate. After all, if it's on the WWW it must be true.

Finally, Croats make some good-looking women. My girlfriend's heritage is 50% croatian, and she's scrumptious.

So, can we avoid the watchtower? If you read the further letters, you'll see I equal opportunity bash everyone... the Italians, the French, the Sardinians, the French, the Spanish, the Valencians, the German tourists (and you can't fault me on that; have you ever met German tourists? Worse than Americans!), the Swedes, the Scots (and not the welsh or the Liverpudlians), the Danes, the Muslims, the Christians, [Edit] the gays, people with birth defects, [/edit] and anyone else who happens to merit mention. Read all of it through the prism of MTW, that is, that Ole, as an inhabitent of his own particular world, doesn't know or care about prejudice or false information.

If you want to discuss this further with me, please feel free to e-mail me.

[Grond]

Come to think of it, not a single person complained about the name of the Italian ship. Heh. Slipped one by!

[miho]

I also apologize for being so rash and I understand that you ment nothing wrong. I also admitted that your stories were funny. I didn't mean it to be so offensive as it might look. Also I thank you for taking the time for writing such a long reply and researching the history of these parts. Lets just forget about the whole thing and bury the hatchet.
And I have to agree on the part about Croatian women. They sure are good-looking.

[Vladimir]

Your posts are funny but I got a little offended by your last post

You see I'm from Croatia and its understandable for me to get offended.
Furthermore that part of Croatia you mention wasn't ruled by the Byzantines but by the Hungarians.
I know that what you're writing is fiction (and its great) I'm just trying to point out some incorrect facts in your story.

So, the thought of killing thousands upon thousands of people in this game doesn't offend you but when a reference is made to some long (loooooong) dead relatives you're offended? Just keep it in context and consider the source; an evil, dysfunctional, fictional spy. Thanks for the historical clarification though .

[Mithrandir]

So, the thought of killing thousands upon thousands of people in this game doesn't offend you but when a reference is made to some long (loooooong) dead relatives you're offended? Just keep it in context and consider the source; an evil, dysfunctional, fictional spy. Thanks for the historical clarification though .

It's done, things were settled a few posts back. .

Anyway, back on topic please...and lets keep it unoffensive.

[Grond]

My Liege:

After Valencia, I thought I would never want to eat an orange again. I have changed my mind. Russia makes Croatia seem a glorious garden paradise.

Our trip here was eventful enough, as Ragnar had become completely embroiled in the wretched native culture in Valencia. I thus had to lure him to my modest quarters, where I knocked him on the head and rolled him up in one of the large Turkish carpets that seem to be hung on all the walls in the nice palaces; only the truly rich seem to put them on floors. I’m sure they’ll never notice one of these priceless objects gone missing.

As they say, “leave only footprints. Take only pictures.” And you should see the great paintings we managed to grab when we were leaving. We packed everything into a good, sturdy Norwegian long boat and set off on a sea voyage that would have made Homer dizzy. (Have you read the Odyssey? I’m afraid not much of the original text survives; it’s been rewritten so many times, you can see the erasure marks in the margins. At least the Bible, in the original Latin version, is still fresh. And, honestly, my liege, everyone knows there’s no such thing as giant one-eyed monsters that spit juice. Wait, come to think of it, maybe it was allegorical? In that case, hahahaha Homer was a funny guy. I’ll have to re-read that thing, this time in a pornographical frame of mind. Still, if someone takes 10 years to travel half way across the Mediterranean, it’s time to hire a better boat captain. What is it with people taking forever to get anywhere near Palestine? Moses spent forty years mucking about in the desert, and where did it get him? Dead on the banks of a river.)

We encountered a terrible storm around Portugal, and to survive we were forced to throw Pierre over the side. It was him, or the paintings. And these are some pretty important paintings, I’m going to make some money on them… er, for you, of course. To pay expenses for the greater glory of Daneland 4Ever. Right.

Once we made it into the Baltic sea, I contemplated stopping by to see you, but I thought you’d be mourning your 15th misshapen monstrosity of a child. It was better that she didn’t live, with those flipper feet and the missing limbs. Perhaps a new, younger wife might improve the state of things? Oh, and congratulations on finally getting Eric a wife. I sent him a bolt of silk for his servant boys as a wedding gift. Is it true that his new wife looks exactly like your third daughter Inga? And where is Inga these days? The scuttlebutt around the spy water cooler was that she’d been married off to a Muslim, and we’d never see her again. It was a pure stroke of luck that Eric's new wife is named Inga, too. Well, it's only coincidence that Inga the sister and Inga the wife look the same. Frankly, who can tell? If you change a headress, one girl in a white dress looks like any other, so you could have married off Inga the sister to Eric the Brother, though that would be monstrous and the church would probably rise up and burn you if they found out you did. Of course they'd never find out, right?

Send extra florins.

All that is water under the bridge, and I hear that Eric’s first child had only a few defects in the number of fingers, toes, and heads and so on. The saying is “two heads are better than one!” I can only bow to such conventional wisdom, in awe, and remember my own insipidity and lack of learning. When Eric finally dies, which one of the heads will rule? You will, of course, live forever, my liege, so this is only a rhetorical question, a sort of fun spy’s “what -if” scenario.

I then heard you’d run off to Spain on junket of some sort with 2000 of your finest troops, so it may take a while for this missive to reach you. You seem to conquer those sunny regions only in the wintertime. Is there something you want to tell me, your liege? Winter here is fierce and the wolves drag away the weak children every day. I rather think the Livornians encourage this as a way to keep food costs down.

Livonia is quite strange and wonderful, and I’m overjoyed you sent me here. I don’t know what I was thinking, criticizing it in one of my previous letters. And I read your note to me carefully, the one about sending me where you wanted and cutting off my head if I so much as complained one iota. I don’t even know what an “iota” is, so how could I complain? Hahahaha, a little Greek humor there, your majesty.

The paintings had all become moldy, along with the priceless carpet, so we tossed the whole thing overboard somewhere near Warnemunde. Let the Pomerranians have it! Do you know, the entire time along that coast, we could see thousands of cookfires of Pomerranian peasants who had risen up against their evil masters. It’s clear that no one really wants Pommerania, if not for the fact that they seem to breed ratter dogs of loathsome nature, or just for the boring food they have.

Ragnar seems to like Livornia as well, though he drools a lot and his eyes haven’t focused since Valencia. I might have hit him a little hard, but dwarf skulls are usually so thick, I had no idea it would affect him so. Still, his personality is less abrasive and he’s far more pliable. Whew, and what a stink his diapers make. Hold on, my liege, that problem has become painfully smelly in the last few moments, I must go beat a groom to change him.

Back, my liege, and these Livornian grooms are so snotty, I had to beat him until he was bleeding, and thus there might be a few stains on this, your letter. These brutes in Livornia only know violence as the language of respect, and so I must be your fist to represent how very serious their situation is. I will beat him again after finishing for his impertinence in bleeding on a letter to the King.

The population here is in serious defiance to Daneland 4Ever. Upon arrival, I immediately began trials of the first troop of spearmen, natives of this fine region. Of the 200, 187 were traitorous scum, and the remaining 13 were impious unctuous filth that Kfister the Inquisitor removed for me. Good riddance to bad rubbish! Luckily, I was able to do the trials 50 at a time, which wasn’t entirely fair, as we couldn’t consider the guilt of each one, which would have been far more satisfying by far, don’t you think? Back when I was just a little spyling, I would have done the trials one at a time. What a waste that would have been! Now I have time to visit with the locals and see their culture.

Their buildings are mud, some stone, and some timber. They live in such squalor and filth, I thought about complaining, but realized this looks exactly like home and thus it gives me pleasure to be here, especially when it's so cold outside that things are just frozen stiff after a few seconds. Oh, it was a good joke, you sending me here. Hahah.

Perhaps I could go to Champagne? There's a new invention in drinks there, worth checking out.

There is a troop of English longbowmen here, and they’re quite cheeky. They were bragging about being the best, and how they made the French cavalry fear, etc. I had to point out that we’d repeatedly invaded their sorry country for a thousand years, owned it now, and if they were so great why were they working for Daneland 4Ever instead of Wales 4Ever? They were sullen and silent, and no one had a good rejoinder. Chalk up another win for the good guys! I think we’re winning these people, one heart and one mind at a time.

Hjalmar sends his greetings and love. His are the finest peasant garrison troops I’ve seen in ages. They’ve got the spit shining down, but I’ve never seen them train. Oh hell, he’ll never see battle, and he is a decent governor. We sometimes chew whale fat together on the cold nights when the sentries freeze solid as boards.

I hear Henri XXXVIII of France, or what’s left of it, declared a “Children’s Crusade.” Really, my liege, that WAS my idea and for you to tell him and he to take credit for it seems like such a breach of etiquette. Or, at least he could have tipped his hat to you as the originator of the idea, for my ideas belong to you, and naturally I wouldn’t want a piece of that action.

Send florins!

In dutiful service,
Your spy,

Ole

[miho]

Loved your last post especially the part with prince Sven. Could you put his biography or something?

[Grond]

My Liege:

Recently, a person claiming to be known to you, one Ole the Spy, came crawling to my doorway. This man appeared miserable, bloody, and in some large part distressed, and said, “Åh Gud! Jeg har en økse i hovedet.” I asked him to speak in Latin, and he instead replied with what I think was the same thing in another language: “Boje moj! sjekira mi je u glavi. Ai ridiós! Tiengo una estral en o tozuelo.” Thinking it was a Sicilian trick, I devised a way to send him off from my dwelling, then I sent men to beat him with sticks. Now, however, it seems I am informed by the Sultan of Constantinople that this Ole was, indeed, a spy for your majesty and that I may have hindered his ability to report. To wit, I say, nonsense. Any man who would permit himself to drop to so lowly a position as a beggar in the service of your majesty-- for which we are forever grateful and implore you not to forget your faithful servants ever--he is not in your service, but his own, and deserve contempt and pity.

Your servant,
Asterix
Premiere of Greece

[miho]

Boje moj! sjekira mi je u glavi.

The correct would be “Bože moj! sjekira mi je u glavi."
ž is a letter unique to some Slavenic languages and I think you don't even have it on your keyboard so if you want you can copy paste it to your post.

[miho]

And for those who don't speak Croatian, Spanish or Danish(?) the translated version woould be "Oh my god! An axe is in my head!"
Its nice to see Croatian language on this forum.

[Vladimir]

Huh, I guess Asterix isn't the most observant fellow. I would think that an axe lodged in someone's cranium would be a dead giveaway.

[Grond]

The correct would be “Bože moj! sjekira mi je u glavi."
ž is a letter unique to some Slavenic languages and I think you don't even have it on your keyboard so if you want you can copy paste it to your post.

Unfortunately, Asterix doesn't appear to have a croatian keyboard at hand, and he was translating by ear. I thought he did pretty good. You understood it!

[miho]

Unfortunately, Asterix doesn't appear to have a croatian keyboard at hand, and he was translating by ear. I thought he did pretty good. You understood it!

Yeah. He did quite good. I thought you don't have ž on your keyboard. I bet you also don't have č,ć,š,đ. Appreciate the thought though.

[SauveQuiPeut]

- I bet you also don't have č,ć,š,đ. -

We can do nj and lj though...