“Certainly.” And he refilled his own, careful not to put in quite as much as he had given her. He held his goblet high, and the two mugs clinked. “A toast, my lady, to Denmark — ”
“And to Baghdad.” Her smile was sly. Then they both drank to the dregs. Sinbad flushed with the feel of wine spilling through his veins. Thruna, though, used to many a drinking bout, merely smacked her lips.
“More, Princess?”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”
And again he poured for her and then for himself. Thruna sipped more slowly this time and glanced at ease around the cabin. She found it spartan, but neat. Comfortable, although far too small.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, running her finger around the rim of the mug. “This ship of yours, the Sch — ?”
“The Scheherazade, my lady, named after another lady of quality like yourself. But those of us who sail her call her the Sherry.”
“Yes, the Sherry, then. It seems to be a good ship … ”
“It is. Well fitted for long voyages.”
Thruna frowned slightly. She shifted her weight and this time poured from the pitcher herself “It’s not that I’m complaining, you understand,” she continued, “but I find my cabin, indeed all the quarters aboard, a trifle stuffy.”
“My lady?”
“Come come, Captain. You know what I mean. There’s so little room. Why, even your cabin is not much larger than an oversized closet. We’re too cramped. We should have something bigger … ”
Sinbad swallowed. “Ah, I realize that you’ve been accustomed to far more spacious quarters, Princess, but if you intend to stay with us I’m afraid you’ll have to make do.”
Her smile was full, and crafty. “Hmm. Perhaps — for a while. But I was wondering if we might not sell her somewhere and get ourselves a bigger ship,” Sinbad was flabbergasted. We, ourselves? “You know,” Thruna went on, “Something to give us more freedom. Something — er — shall we say, more worthy?”
“More worthy of what?”
“Of our voyages, Captain.”
Hiding his consternation, Sinbad smiled and said, “Have another drink.”
Thruna’s milky flesh showed through the sheer gown she still wore. “You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”
He refilled his mug also. “We’ll both get drunk,” he replied, trying to keep the festive mood alive.
Thruna narrowed her eyes and looked him over carefully. She suspects, Sinbad thought. The Nordic princess, however, didn’t seem cautious. With a grin and a wink she downed the entire mug in a few quick swallows — and politely waited for Sinbad to finish his as well.
“Haven’t you any ale?” she asked when he was done.
“No, my lady. Sorry. Only wine.”
“Never mind.” She sighed and again let him refill the cup. “I don’t know what you’re planning,” she said as he emptied the last contents of the pitcher and called for another, “but it’s not going to work.” She put her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and rested her chin on them, all the while looking at Sinbad and smiling.
Sinbad returned the smile but secretly groaned. This was going to be harder than he thought; Thruna was determined to match him drink for drink, to make a contest of it, to see him pass out long before she did. And knowing the ways of Harald’s court at Roskilde, he knew she just might succeed.
There was a knock on the door and Mongo entered, carrying a small barrel filled with strong Egyptian wine. He placed it on the table and withdrew silently, though not before noticing Sinbad’s reddened face and the slur in his speech when he thanked him.
Thruna opened the spout and filled the mugs, pushing his in front of his eyes. “Drink it,” she said in a tone that was as much command as request.
He lifted the cup, uttered a toast, and put it to his lips. Thruna did the same and they drained the mugs immediately. Sinbad was tipsy by the time he put the cup down; his eyes were fogging, his cheeks shading scarlet.
Thruna giggled. “You underestimated me,” she said, yawning and pouring them both more wine. She untied her braids and swung her head so that her hair flowed freely. “In Denmark we’re used to drinking matches. But of course we prefer a stronger brew … ” And he frowned at the wine.
Sinbad sighed, cursing Felicia for letting her talk him into this. The brazen Viking woman downed her wine as though it were water! And the contest was taking an insidious turn; now it was she who was testing him, analyzing his stamina and weighing it against that of the lords of Roskilde whose bellies were never satisfied.
“More?” she asked, her brows raised.
Sinbad forced a pleasant smile. “Certainly.”
How much of the brew they consumed between them it was impossible to say. All Sinbad knew was that no matter how much he took, her own intake was at least the same. Clearly her purpose was to prove that she could beat him at his own game, prove that she was his better, and thus settle once and for all the question of leadership. For the first time Sinbad felt pity for the weak king of Crete, who had agreed to take such a determined woman to wife.
“Hot, isn’t it?” said Thruna. She rose and opened the porthole. Sinbad drew a deep breath of sea air and drew upon every inner resource he could muster. By Allah, no Nordic princess was going to get the better of him!
This time he poured the wine, filling the mugs evenly.
“I have great plans for us. Sinbad,” Thurna said, raising her arm in yet another toast. “With your nautical skills and my leadership — ”
He hardly heard. It took all his commitment and energy just to keep up at her pace; while she rattled on about adventure and daring, he focused on keeping his mind clear. One way or another.
Thruna was laughing grandly now. Banging an open palm on the table like a drum, she went into a series of Norse songs — songs of the ancient gods, songs of battle, of seafaring, of the life her people had led for a thousand years. Her loud voice carried far past the door of his cabin, along the corridors, up to the deck, where many a head turned in wonder.
“What’s going on down there?” said Abu, scratching his head.
Felicia, on watch, shuddered. She didn’t know — but she had a good idea.
It was well past midnight, and the trimmed sails had slowed the ship’s speed dramatically. Already the crew could see Harald’s long ships gaining, even under the stars, as the Scheherazade purposely slowed.
Thruna burped. “Excuse me.”
Sinbad nodded feebly. He felt nauseated; his eyes followed the gentle swinging of the hanging lamp above and he gripped the sides of the table fiercely to keep from falling over.
Thruna saw this and chortled; she filled her own cup but left his empty. The clash of wills was all but finished, she knew. It would not be long before Sinbad threw in the towel and collapsed into a stupor.
She twiddled her thumbs and smiled brightly. “Had enough?”
Her voice seemed distant and it was all he could do to turn his head and look at her. “E … nuff?”
Thruna slammed down her fist and roared. “Give in, Captain. You made a valiant effort and I respect you for it. But — hic — you know you’re defeated. Why not admit it? Look.” She glanced to the porthole, where the faintest glimmer of morning gray had begun to tease the far horizon. “It’s almost dawn. Why don’t you sleep? Later when you feel better we’ll talk again, discuss our next destination. By then I hope to have some good ideas … ”
She had won. Already she was speaking as though she were the commander of the ship. Sinbad put his head to his hands and groaned. What was he to do? Harald’s ships would be close — too close to escape now. He was lost for sure. But at least Thruna didn’t know her father was so near. At least one good thing would come of this, for even though he might spend the rest of his days in a Cretan dungeon, she would be returned to her husband after all. That would be his feeble revenge.
Thruna leaned back wearily, her own eyes red and blurry, and inhaled deeply. “Ah,
fresh air … ”
Fresh air! Yes, there was still a chance …
He picked himself up, mug in hand, and wobbled over to the porthole. “T-the … contest is — isn’t over yet, Princess. I — I need air … ”
Thruna chuckled. “You never give up, do you? All right, Sinbad. Have your air. I’ll be waiting.” Then she tauntingly opened the spout and filled her cup once more.
Sinbad staggered to the wall. Thruna was not facing him; he lifted the thick clay mug and stepped slowly toward her. “Sorry, Princess,” he slurred. “I really hate to cheat … ” And he brought the mug down on her head, shattering it into a hundred fragments and spilling the wine over her golden hair.
Thruna spun round. She gaped, started to rise with balled fists and eyes fit to kill. Then with a gurgle and a moan she slumped forward, toppled from the chair and fell unconscious on the floor.
Sinbad fought his way to the door and flung it open wide. Felicia came running from the end of the corridor. The pirate girl took one look inside and gasped. “You killed her!”
He shook his head and spoke with effort. “Not … blood. Wine … Pick her up. You … know … what … to do … ”
Felicia nodded. With Mongo’s help she scraped the dazed princess off the floor and carried her to the deck. Sinbad stood alone, watching from the porthole as the two Viking ships pulled aside. Hundreds of burly Norsemen, horned helmets glinting in the predawn light, made ready to attack.
“Give me my daughter!” raved a frenzied Harald, bedecked in full battle armor and shaking a menacing fist as he stood boldly at the prow of his vessel. “I warn you, Sinbad!”
On deck a barrel had been prepared. Mongo held Thruna upright in full display. “The princess is well,” shouted Felicia to the king. “See for yourself. And we’re returning her to you — with but one small condition … “
The enraged king of Denmark scowled. “What condition?”
“That you give up the chase. Take Thurna but turn back. Give no aid to the Cretans.”
Harald stared at the brazen girl responsible for this whole episode. He looked mad enough to have everyone aboard the Scheherazade beheaded. He squinted hard into the light and peered at his wobbly daughter. “The princess is all right?”
Felicia nodded. “Drunk — but all right.”
The king, knowing his child very well, smirked. “And your captain? Where is he?”
Felicia flushed. “Indisposed, my lord … Too drunk to greet you … ”
Harold roared with laughter. The crews of both his ships laughed in similar fashion.
“Then we have a bargain?”
The king chuckled. “We do. Bring the girl to me.”
Felicia nodded and Mongo gingerly packed the princess into the waiting barrel. She began to snore as he covered her with a blanket to keep her warm.
Ropes were swiftly connected and the barrel was lowered over the side, where the swells soon carried Thruna closer to her father’s ship. From his side ropes were also lowered, this time to receive the package.
“You’ll keep your promise?” called a worried Felicia. “No aid to the Greeks?”
At the very mention of the word Harald’s face changed color. “Assist those dogs?” he barked, sputtering. “After the way that jellyfish of a king insulted me? Bah! I must have been demented to seek such a ridiculous alliance! The king of Crete can count himself lucky that I don’t declare war on him! No, now that my child is safe, it’s back to Denmark. I’ve had enough of warm seas and hot air. Cultured races indeed!”
Felicia beamed. “Good-bye, my lord. May Allah protect you.”
“And may He keep you as well. But remember — if your captain ever decides he’s had enough of these fools and their islands, you all have a place at Roskilde. I’ll keep a thousand barrels of ale waiting. Farewell, my pirate! Farewell, Captain Sinbad!”
And with that, Harald strode from the prow and signaled his captains to set a new course, back to icebound Denmark.
Sinbad smiled from his vantage point at the porthole. Although the blustery king might have claimed his head, he was sorry to see him leave. And he made a special point of promising himself that he would one day come to Roskilde.
The he vomited out the window and fell upon his bunk to sleep.
*
With full sails and good winds the Scheherazade continued to head west. Within a week they were in sight of the cliffs of Sicily, but the crazed king of Crete and his fleet had not given up. Although still far behind, and slipping farther back every day. The king pressed forward in the hope of finding and catching Sinbad at some nearby port. And dock the ship must, for the weather was changing and the Scheherazade’s supplies were running precariously low.
“Stopping at Malta or Sicily is too risky,” said Sinbad gravely to the small group gathered in his cabin. “Give those Cretans a few days’ time and they’ll be swarming all over us.”
“Aye,” agreed a dour Milo. “But what are we to do? Our fresh water is dangerously low, Sinbad. Not to mention the stores … ”
Nods of agreement from every face met him as he glanced around: Felicia, Abu, Methelese, Clair, even Don Giovanni, who sat meekly at the side of the desk.
“We just can’t risk it,” Sinbad went on firmly. He took his map and spread it out across the desk; everyone peered over his shoulder.
“Perhaps we can make it to Corsica,” said Abu hopefully, adding, “That is, if we don’t run into any rough weather. The gale season is upon us, you know.”
Sinbad nodded. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
“What?” Methelese was incredulous. So were the others. This was the worst time of year. The changing seasons made these Mediterranean waters as dangerous as any in the world.
“Hear me out,” said Sinbad hastily over the protests. “Our only hope is to force the Cretans back. While the waters are calm the king will follow us forever, but” — he let a small grin break over his otherwise stoic features — “should we lead him to danger — “
“He’ll have no choice but to turn around,” said Felicia, completing the thought.
“Precisely. He’ll run like a hound for a safe harbor to wait the season out. In the meantime well have lost him, with no chance of his finding our route again.”
“All well and good,” said Milo uneasily. “But what about ourselves? You’re purposely taking us into these storms — risking our lives every bit as much. And frankly,” — he frowned and looked at his companions — “I’d rather face the Greeks than these gales. By Allah, we’d have a better go of it!”
Sinbad rubbed at his chin. “Maybe, maybe not. Look.” He pointed to the map again. “My plan is to swing north by west here,” — his finger landed in the Tyrrhenian Sea and tracked a pattern upward — “pass close to Sardinia, letting the Cretans think we’re going to port. Then, we shoot through the narrow strait between Sardinia and Corsica, heading again toward the Pillars of Hercules. Sooner or later these spring gales are going to hit; somewhere along the way the Cretans will have to seek shelter. And we’ll be on our way.”
“Good plan,” said Felicia, “but aren’t you overlooking one thing? We’ll never reach the Pillars of Hercules without supplies — and a Greek sword is certainly a preferable death to starvation.”
“Hear, hear,” chimed Don Giovanni.
“Ah, but we are going to stop. Here. At Mallorca, in the Balearic Islands. Or even Tarragona in Cordoba, if we have to.”
The faces were still long.
“Well, what do you think?”
Abu frowned, keeping in mind the near-empty barrels of fresh water. “I think,” he answered, speaking for them all, “that we had better pray for rain.”
*
The ship went on half rations immediately. Under a hot sun, growing hotter day by day, it passed the peaceful coasts of Sicily and headed north, on the route that Sinbad had outlined. With the warmer months at hand, the temperature steadily increased, and there was also a noticeable shift in the s
ky’s turbulence. But one full week after the plan had been discussed there was still no sign of rain.
Less than a hundred leagues from Sardinia, quarter rations were imposed. A cupful of water a day for everyone. That and a subsistence ration of fish and salted beef. Each day the lookout would scour the horizon from edge to edge and dutifully report that the Cretan fleet was yet within sight, doggedly trailing behind and never once failing to reappear even after a cloudy and foggy night.
Sinbad spent long hours alone, especially in the time before dawn, staring forlornly up at the stars, praying for rain, and hoping that his decision had been the right one. At moments of despair it was Don Giovanni who offered solace. The little frog alone understood Sinbad’s loneliness and frustration, the heavy burdens always imposed upon those in authority. But something would have to break soon — if not, the ship might not be able to survive long enough to even reach the next port.
It was during the critical passage between Corsica and Sardinia that matters began to change. While Sinbad stood forlornly at his post, thinking of the advancing Cretans and his perilous survival, Methelese came to the bridge, Clair meekly at his side.
“How goes it?” the wise Greek asked somberly.
Sinbad grimaced, staring out at the cloudless night sky. “Fair weather for as far as a man can see,” he replied glumly. “I fear we’ll never reach our destination.”
Methelese studied the face of the worried mariner. Their predicament was certainly becoming drastic, he knew, and such a happenstance called for drastic solutions.
“Perhaps you should sleep for a while,” said Clair to the captain.
Sinbad smiled and shook his head. “I’ve tried, dear lady. It’s no use; I can’t rest. Not while our lives are in such peril.”
Methelese clasped his shoulder in a fatherly fashion. “You must rest, my friend. No man can carry all the burdens by himself. Perhaps I can find some potion in my bags to make your nights more comfortable — ”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 71