We continued our westerly heading for about another week when, again following the main contour of the coast, we turned in a more southerly direction. Brent had not dared stop along this leg of the cruise as the local mountains were full of outlaws and thieves with nothing to trade or plunder. So we maintained our distance from the familiar smudge on the horizon and turned to the south when it seemed we would lose sight of it.
This part of the trip sticks in my mind particularly, because it was here that I had my first sight of that beautiful creature called the dolphin. A school of them swam with us for most of the day, they came in very close, diving and twisting in our bow wave and tumbling in the wake. Most fascinating of all, was when they swam leisurely alongside us, watching us with their deep black eyes. I could even see the hole on the top of their heads from which they blew out a misty, fishy breath. Their smooth skins glistened like polished best leather, tight and smooth over the strong muscles that sent them speeding through the water to leap, twist and swoop through the air. It’s no small wonder that they had a reputation for being able to fly. Luckily for them, the Viking barbarians considered them to be a lucky sight and an omen of good weather, so none were killed and butchered.
They stayed with us, on and off for several days. Then early one morning, as we sailed a touch closer to the shore through a bright, orange tinted patch of water, they were gone. I hoped that they hadn’t taken the fine weather with them. One of the crewmen told me of a time when he’d been on another ship, a dolphin had been caught in a net and kept with the ship to draw the good weather along with it. But it had died and the gods were so angry that they had sent a storm that had battered and beaten them for a whole year. I thought the consequences were probably grossly exaggerated but noted the yarn in the Saga nonetheless.
The colouring of the water was apparently one of Brent’s navigational aids and he turned the ship, under oars, to follow the stream. It led us into a wide river and between the trees on the banks I could see shadowy figures watching us and flitting through woody glades that were flooded with the early sunshine. Eventually we came within sight of a settlement. It was a busy looking place that had grown around the high walls of an imposing castle that had been grafted to the rocky knoll above. The colour of the water, stronger than usual because of inland rain and storms. It was caused by a heavy deposit of silt that had been picked up from the riverside fields through the irrigation and land drains.
Boldly, we sailed up to a well equipped quay side and threw our mooring lines to eager hands on the shore. For a moment I thought that Brent would allow his men ashore to go amongst the people of the town. But, looking more carefully I noticed a tall barricade and stone wall that effectively sealed us off from the inhabitants.
At a gateway set into the wall, a group of traders had gathered with their barrows and boxes but they were held back by a group of disciplined guardsmen in gleaming bronze armour. Their helmets were ornate and curiously shaped, having a high domed top and a boat shaped brim. Their skins were darker than ours, though not as dark as pictures I had seen of some people from the far southern continents. Each of them wore dark beards which had been cropped to a single short point below their characteristic long chins.
When we had finished securing to the quay, Brent stood at the side of the ship as though waiting for someone. He was dressed in his best clothes and was fully armed with his broad sword and a small shield. Behind him, Ivar stood close carrying a long javelin, a colourful pennant fluttered from its point in the light breeze.
I’d not long to wait to see why. A group of well dressed men in heavy brocade robes and rich velvet cloaks arrived with their small honour guard. A seat was produced and the leader amongst them sat while another, a tall man, spoke to Brent...or tried to. Neither could understand the other. Brent’s guttural language seemed harsh and clumsy against the official’s, song-like native tongue. It became even worse when he tried Latin.
‘No-man. Here. Now!’ shouted Brent.
I pushed through the group of onlookers to arrive at his side.
‘Yes sir.’ I said.
‘Listen to what this gaudy buffoon says and see if you can understand him.’ he gestured rudely to the well dressed gentleman.
Brent was very obviously angry at having to rely on the knowledge of a slave. I was as nervous as I might be before a battle. This would be the first civilised foreigner and total stranger that I had ever tried to speak to. He will think that I am one of these barbarians I realised shamefully.
The tall spokesman turned to me and made a curt, almost impatient, courtly bow which I returned with a small flourish.
‘We hope to welcome you to our city of Lisbon.’ he waved a hand towards the gate. ‘Please, buy what you need from our merchants.’ his gaze swept the deck of our ship and its motley crew of cut-throats and thieves. ‘Your men however, must not be allowed outside the docks area, they are free to come ashore so long as they are unarmed.’ he said in a very passable Latin that was better than mine. Quickly I translated the gist of his welcome and conditions to Brent.
‘You will stay and translate for me. But no lies I warn you. And don’t try to escape.’ muttered Brent. ‘Tell him, thanks for his welcome. We will be pleased to see the wares of his merchants. Tell him though, that our real need is for fresh water.’ Brent nodded curtly towards the party of officials.
Dutifully, I relayed the message, and their spokesman smiled and nodded knowingly, then went to speak to the older man who was seated.
The older one looked like a Bishop I decided. On his left hand he wore a ring with a bright red stone set into it, almost the size of a pigeon’s egg. His heavy, purple velvet cloak was trimmed with fine leather and edged with a soft white fur, his breeches and tunic looked as though they had been expertly tailored to fit like a second skin.
The spokesman finished his report and came smiling back to us. ‘You are free to stay here for two days. We will send a man with an ox cart to collect your water casks.’
Brent removed his polished helmet and bowed his head. ‘Tell him thanks, we will have the casks and jars brought onto the shore right away. Two days will be more than long enough in this stinking hole.’
The small party of officials rose and, with their small guard, marched through the docks gateway, back into the town. The merchants and salesmen swarmed through as the officials left, but I noticed that the foreigner’s armed guard had been increased and they had formed into a tight cordon between us and the town. A small crowd of curious inhabitants had gathered behind them to look at the barbarous gang of sailors that had arrived on their doorstep. The only time the stern looking, military barrier parted, was to let a wagoner through with his cart and to admit the steady toing-and-froing of the merchants, provided they could show written credentials.
‘Can’t see why we’re kept prisoner.’ grumbled Ivar, as he turned away to set the men to work bringing up the water casks.
Brent swept the complaint aside. ‘What is the matter with all you ignorant ruffians. Why has none of you learned to speak to these foreign devils?’ his frustration exploded through his temper and he kicked out at a passing crewman.
‘Must I do everything myself.’ his face became ugly with anger. ‘Must I always rely on the services of a lowlife slave.’ as quickly as it had risen, his mood calmed. ‘No-man, you shall stay near me while we are here. When we return to sea, you will teach me, and those others who might manage it, to speak this dreadful language of these...ah...these natives.’
‘Yes sir.’ I answered.
But my face must have paled, that was the last thing that I wanted. I couldn’t have him, or anyone else, actually reading what had been written in his wretched Saga. The stories that he thought I’d written were in the form of a series of margin notes alongside the truthful text, so that I could recite them to him each time he asked me to read. Which he did quite often. He had his favourites too, just like a child who develops a delight in fanciful stories from the old folklore.
But there, although I fancied that Brent was more of an intellectual than he let on, speaking a language was one thing, learning to read it, quite another, I thought. It would be several years before I had anything to worry about from that score.
I sat with my charcoal and pen to draw the harbour and as much as I could see of the town. Of the river entrance I had produced a passable attempt from memory, making a careful note that, out at sea there had been the staining of the water for quite some distance. My sketch of the dolphins was not so good, they looked like humpbacked sea monsters, not the lithe graceful creatures that they really were.
Before me, a busy market place had been set up, sellers of all sorts had arrived to set up stalls or merely to stand or sit by a pile of goods or foodstuff. Those crewmen and warriors that still had some money, wandered through the area picking over the produce and were bargaining fiercely. Money was a universal language, it needed little or no translation.
I noticed Brosnan, who would be one of the richer ones, he wandered about the market with a detached air handling this and that and passing his small purchases of fruit, eggs and some clothing to a young friend that walked dutifully behind him. Neither seemed to notice the sneering looks from the poorer warriors, but the merchants had noticed and were quick to offer something extra for the big man’s young friend. Most times they were successful and made two sales where there would normally have been just the one. The gentler aspect of another, quite different sea monster, made me smile.
The group of town officials arrived again and the spokesman, spotting me, made his way across to where I sat. I called to Brent who was busy with payment for ship’s stores and had not noticed them.
The noisy arrival of the empty watering cart diverted the attention from the town councillors. Particularly because it was empty. The young man driving it stood, nervously wringing his cap, next to an older man that I took to be his father. This had the unmistakable hallmarks of trouble.
Brent ignored the councillors and strode through a parting wave of sailors to reach the water carrier. I tumbled along in his wake and behind me, hurried the muttering team of town leaders.
‘Ask him what in the name of the gods he thinks he’s doing. Where are my water casks.’ growled Brent.
The man before us drew himself to full height in an effort to ward off the angry gaze from Brent. We both knew full well what was afoot, but I asked him anyway. And of course, being of peasant stock, he couldn’t speak any Latin. The councillor’s spokesman pushed through between us and, with a fixed smile cloaking his worried concern, said he would translate for us.
The two of them immediately fell into a heated conversation in which the peasant farmer became indignant and, although frightened, stubborn.
‘The old fool says your water casks are filled but he will not return them until he has been paid. His wife’s idea apparently.’ said the tall councillor.
I relayed this to Brent who, his temper barely reined, answered that he’d expected to pay the man something for the service. Had he not rushed off so quickly after loading up the empties he would have told him so. The spokesman in his turn relayed this to the farmer and then added something that I couldn’t understand. The farmer shook his head vigorously and muttering, held up five fingers.
‘I’m afraid the old fool has been drinking. He wants five of your pieces of silver per cask. Or, he says, they stay where they are.’
Many of the merchants had disappeared, seemingly evaporating like hot water. Behind us, contrary to orders, had formed a group of warriors and each had a sword in his belt. Although nobody else understood what was being said, the feeling in the air had caught them all.
I told Brent what had been said. His explosion was predictable, but his demonic violence was a total, horrifying surprise. Brent drew a sword from a handy warrior’s belt and with just one stroke, struck the heads from both the farmer and the councillor. Hot blood sprayed across my face as the corpse of the townsman fell at my feet. With an angry roar that would have struck terror into the heart of a lion, Brent grabbed at the speechless young man that had stood beside the old peasant. Twisting him around, Brent held him in a vicelike grip and placed the razor sharp edge of the borrowed sword across the dazed young man’s throat.
‘Tell him that he will take us to our water casks. They have their payment, and now we will take what we need.’
‘I cannot tell him anything sir.’ I answered. ‘Our translator can no longer speak.’
I wanted to say, you’ve murdered him, but I just pointed to the grotesque shape lying in a spreading pool of sticky red. The smell of slaughter had already started its work among the warriors and they had set upon the innocent gate guards, dispatching them quickly and anyone else who had been stupid or petrified enough to stay near.
Quickly I caught the arm of the council elder and drew him forward. ‘If you value your life and can understand some of what I say, nod your head.’
Woodenly, the old man slowly nodded his head, tears rolled from his reddened eyes.
‘Can you make the lad understand that he’s to take us to the water casks? Immediately.’ I said to him, trying to speak both slowly and with the maximum urgency.
Thankfully, he nodded and between sobs, managed in his lilting language to get the boy’s attention and explain what he must do. The lad nodded and stood head bowed, gazing at what, just moments before had been several dozen living, breathing souls. With a shaking hand he crossed himself and mumbled a few words of a prayer.
‘Sir. He understands.’ I managed to say to Brent above the excited turmoil. ‘This old man can understand the Latin tongue well enough to make him comprehend.’
‘Very well, what are we waiting for? Ivar take half the men and guard the ship. Set fire to this lot if you need us to hurry back.’ he gestured at the remains of the market stalls. ‘No-man, come with me.’
He shoved the boy towards the cart and, calling his men, set off through the rapidly emptying streets. We heard the sounds of bars and latches being dropped across many of the doors. The men laughed at the response they had caused among the peaceable townsfolk.
The boy was true and led us directly to a sorry looking homestead on the eastern edge of the town. It was set on a piece of high ground overlooking the sweep of land that led from the hills to the north, down to the broad curving river that shone brightly, coppered like a maiden’s hand mirror. It was the work of only moments to load the full casks onto the large, flat bed of the farm cart, its frame groaned with the unaccustomed weight. Brent called the men out from the hovel, where they had been searching for anything of value, but bad news had travelled with fleeter feet than warriors with an oxcart, and the miserable place was happily deserted.
On the return trip Brent gave his men permission to smash their way into a couple of houses and satisfy their hunger for violence and depravity. I felt sickened and resolved to have better control of my men, when I finally got home.
Smoke drifted into the still air from the direction of the dock, Brent called to his men and set off at a gallop, leaving just a handful to bring the cart. Somewhere in that melee the lad and the old councillor disappeared. I hoped they had escaped and were hidden, or taken in.
When we approached the docks we found that the enclosed area had been ringed by a company of native foot soldiers. They all seemed well armed and equipped, but their appearance belied their skill. The Vikings carved an easy, bloody path through them and re-secured the river-front while the water casks were loaded into the cargo space below the main deck.
Incredibly all this had been done in the space of time it would take to eat a good lunch. The local losses must amount to at least two score dead and probably as many men would be mortally wounded. The barbarian had lost but one man and he had slipped beneath the weight of a water cask and broken his back when the edge of the heavy wooden barrel had landed on him.
Without any further incident, apart from a few thrown pebbles, we boarded and cast off from the fly buzzing wreckage of life that these devils had caused. I drew a bucket of water and washed my hands and face in the stained water before I took my place at the rowing benches. Ivar’s cane landed on numbed flesh as he gleefully reminded me that I was a slave and had no free time to play with the fripperies of washing.
The warrior’s spirit within me was being fanned but instead of flaring and scorching, like it had in my earlier youth, it shone deep, with a vibrant heat. Controllable like the furnace of the armourer, but it had become unstoppable, unquenchable. Except by the life blood, of the two demon wretches that led this group of ignorant, savage barbarians. I put my anger to work, pulling with a ferocity on the loom of the heavy oar, making those around me work the harder to keep up. A feeble satisfaction I suppose, but satisfying nonetheless.
Before twilight had faded to blackness we gained the open seas and turned to the south. The wind was contrary so the great sail stayed firmly stowed against its long boom and we remained at our long oars. My anger grew less, in proportion to my swiftly growing tiredness, but still the will of the master made us stay at it. The warriors would be relieved first, and more often, before I got the chance of rest. Every so often we were stopped to take a swig of water from a passed mug, but it didn’t taste right to me, almost as though it was tainted. That would be a sweet revenge for the old man I thought.
‘Ivar.’ called Brent through the gloom. ‘Have No-man sent up here, we have a song to compose about the master who, facing a fierce enemy, cleaved two heads with one stroke.’
So I was relieved of my exhausting labour, but the next job was going to be difficult. I managed to write the truth of the visit while making margin notes of a vain, song of fools. He promised to buy me an instrument called a guitar at our next stop, so that I might sing it to him properly.
The contrary wind died to a whisper and the sea seemed like a lake of silver under the clear moon with her dazzling court of stars. I hoped that a better day lay ahead.