Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 51: Prime Minister

Gyda, the Prime Minister and Mistress of the Ledger, sat at her desk. She was peeling an apple with a dagger that had ended the life of a Jarl three days ago.

"What is failing now?" she asked, slicing a piece of fruit. " The furnace is hot. The harvest is good. The Weasel is selling turnips to the Scots at a 200% markup. We are profitable."

"I am the failure," Ragnar sighed, collapsing into his chair. "I am the CEO, the Chief Engineer, the City Planner, and the Head of HR. I can’t scale, Gyda. I’m trying to implement a Five-Year Plan with a one-man brain."

He referenced the history books in his head. The Soviet Union, for all its flaws, had a massive bureaucracy to force industrialization. The British Empire had a civil service.

Ragnar had... Bjorn.

"Bjorn is great at hitting things," Ragnar continued. "And Leif is a wizard with molten iron. But I need more. I need a Minister of Chemistry to stop the soap factory from blowing up. I need a Minister of Textiles to run the new looms. I need a Minister of Infrastructure because the roads are turning into mud soup."

"So hire them," Gyda said simply.

"From where?" Ragnar gestured to the window. "The talent pool is shallow, Gyda. The Huscarls only know how to kill. The peasants only know how to dig. I need... savants. I need the weirdos. I need the people who count roof tiles for fun."

Gyda chewed her apple thoughtfully.

"Then stop looking for Vikings," she said. "Cast a wider net. Issue a decree. Make it a contest. If there is one thing our people love, it is a competition."

Ragnar’s eyes lit up.

"A National Enrollment," he whispered. "A Job Fair. But with more mead."

The next morning, the "Ministry of Propaganda" (Brother Osric and three loud monks) spread the word. They rode to the villages, the mines, and even the borders of Mercia.

They nailed parchments to trees and shouted in market squares.

Are you tired of dying in a shield wall?

Do you like counting things?

Do you know why mixing urine and ash makes clothes clean?

The Director of Industry seeks:

Master of Mixtures (Chemistry): Must be able to distill spirits without going blind.

Master of Weaves (Textiles): Must hate hand-spinning.

Master of Roads (Infrastructure): Must know how to make mud hard.

Prize:

A Salary in Silver.

A House in the City.

Protection from the Draft.

Warning: Incompetence will be mocked publicly.

***

Two days later, the gates of York were gridlocked.

They came from the countryside. They came from the coast. Thralls who had bought their freedom, second sons of minor Jarls who were bad at fighting, Saxon refugees who heard the Vikings were hiring.

The city of York, already bursting with the new industrial population, groaned under the weight.

Ragnar stood on the balcony, watching the chaos. Carts were jammed wheel-to-wheel. People were sleeping in the streets.

"The traffic is inefficient," Ragnar noted, scribbling in his notebook. "We need traffic lights. Or at least a roundabout."

"The inns are full," Gyda said, standing beside him. "The Weasel has tripled the price of ale. The economy is booming just from the tourism."

"It’s not tourism," Ragnar corrected. "It’s a labor market shock. Look at them."

He pointed to a group of men arguing over a wagon wheel.

"Somewhere in that mess is my Cabinet," Ragnar said. "We just have to filter out the idiots."

Ragnar didn’t use a written exam. Literacy was still too rare. Instead, he set up "The Gauntlet" in the main square.

It was a series of tents, each containing a specific nightmare test designed to weed out the pretenders.

Tent 1: The Chemistry Test

Inside, Ragnar had placed five jars of clear liquid.

Water.

Vinegar.

Strong Alcohol.

Ammonia (Stale Urine).

Sulfuric Acid (diluted).

"Identify them," Ragnar ordered the line of hopefuls. "Without dying."

Most applicants sniffed the ammonia and passed out. One tried to drink the vinegar and vomited.

But then, a short, stout woman with red cheeks stepped up. She was a brewer’s daughter named Helga.

She didn’t sniff. She wafted the scent toward her nose with her hand a safety technique Ragnar hadn’t even taught yet.

"Water," she pointed. "Sour wine. Good spirits." She pointed to the ammonia. "Cleaning fluid." She looked at the acid. She dipped a small stick into it and watched the wood blacken. "And... dragon spit. Dangerous."

Ragnar, sitting behind a desk, marked a check on his paper.

"You’re hired," he said. "Report to the soap factory. Don’t drink the dragon spit."

Tent 2: The Infrastructure Test

This test was simple. A patch of mud. A pile of stones. A pile of sand. A pile of gravel.

"Build a road," Ragnar told the applicants. "You have ten minutes. Then I drive a cart over it."

Most men just threw the big stones in the mud. When the cart rolled over them, the stones sank, and the wheels got stuck.

Then came a man named Cedric. He was a Saxon, a former thrall who had worked on Roman ruins.

He didn’t start with the big stones. He laid the sand first. Then the gravel. Then the stones on top, locking them together like a puzzle.

"Drainage," Cedric mumbled, packing the dirt. "If water stays, road dies."

Ragnar signaled the cart driver (Bjorn).

The heavy cart rolled over Cedric’s patch. It rolled smooth.

"You," Ragnar pointed. "You are the Minister of Potholes. Get a vest."

Tent 3: The Textile Test

This was the hardest. Ragnar placed a tangled mess of wool, a broken loom, and a diagram of a gear system on a table.

"Fix it," Ragnar said.

Dozens of weavers failed. They tried to untangle the wool by hand. They ignored the gears.

Then, a young man walked in. He was skinny, with long, delicate fingers. His name was Torbjorn. He was known in his village as "Torbjorn the Slow" because he hated farm work.

Torbjorn looked at the loom. He looked at the gears.

He took it apart. He rearranged the gears. He used the wool as a drive belt.

"It spins faster if you don’t use your hands," Torbjorn whispered, almost to himself.

Ragnar felt a tear come to his eye.

"A kindred spirit," Ragnar whispered to Gyda. "He hates manual labor so much he invented automation."

...

By sunset, the square was empty. The failures had been sent home (or hired as general laborers the factory always needed muscle).

Three people stood in the Great Hall, looking terrified. They were the survivors.

Helga the Brewer (Minister of Chemistry).

Cedric the Saxon (Minister of Infrastructure).

Torbjorn the Slow (Minister of Textiles).

They stood before King Horik, who was sitting on his throne looking confused.

"Why is there a Saxon in my court?" Horik whispered to Ragnar. "And a woman who smells like yeast?"

"This is the future government, my King," Ragnar announced. "These are the people who will make you richer than the Emperor of Frankia."

Ragnar turned to his new hires.

"Welcome to the Ministry," Ragnar said, pacing in front of them like a shark in a suit. "You have no noble blood. You have no land. You have nothing but your brains."

"That is why you are dangerous," Gyda added, stepping out from the shadows. She dropped a heavy ledger on the table. Thump.

"Helga," Ragnar commanded. "I need soap that doesn’t burn the skin, and gunpowder that explodes on time. You have the budget of a small kingdom. Don’t blow up the city."

Helga nodded, eyes wide. "Yes, Director."

"Cedric," Ragnar continued. "The streets of York are a disgrace. I want cobblestones. I want drainage. And I want a road to the coast that can support a ten-ton wagon. Can you do it?"

"Give me the stone, Lord," Cedric said, his voice gaining strength. "I will pave the world."

"Torbjorn," Ragnar finished. "The sheep are waiting. I want a machine that spins fifty threads at once. I want every Viking in this army wearing a uniform that is warm, waterproof, and identical."

Torbjorn looked at his hands. "I need gears. Lots of gears. And brass."

"You will have them," Ragnar promised.

He turned to the King. "My King, the Cabinet is full. The government is operational."

Horik scratched his beard. "Does this mean I can go hunting?"

"Yes," Ragnar smiled. "Go hunting. We will handle the civilization."

Later that night, Ragnar stood on the balcony with Gyda. The city was quieting down, but the energy was different. It wasn’t just the tension of war anymore. It was the hum of productivity.

"We have the people," Ragnar said. "But we have a problem."

"What problem?" Gyda asked, checking her list of new tax revenues.

"York," Ragnar said, looking at the crowded streets below. "It’s too small. The walls are constraining us. The river is too narrow for the new ships I want to build."

He pulled out a map of England.

"Jernheim was the prototype," Ragnar whispered. "York was the beta test."

He pointed to a spot further south. A place where the coal seams ran deep, the rivers were wide, and the land was flat enough for massive factories.

"If we are going to build an Empire," Ragnar said, his ambition expanding like gas in a cylinder, "we need a capital designed for Industry. Not a Roman ruin we patched up."

Gyda looked at the map. She looked at the cost estimates in her head.

"It will cost millions," she warned.

"It will make billions," Ragnar countered.

He looked at the three new Ministers leaving the palace, talking excitedly about road grades and fermentation ratios.

"The machine is building itself now, Gyda," Ragnar smiled. "I just have to keep it oiled."

"Tomorrow," Ragnar said, "we start the Textile Revolution.."