by C. R. May
Sturla was still taking a joshing from his comrades, and Erik finally took pity on his banner man, motioning him to his side with a flick of the head. The golden sunlight gilded the distant crests inland now and it would not be long before the boats arrived to escort Erik and his senior men ashore; he shot his man a sympathetic smile as he crossed the steering platform. ‘Come and sit with me,’ he said. ‘Kings always get to sit upwind.’
Sturla snorted. ‘It was a good thing that only half of each crew ate the food sent from the town,’ he replied. ‘Imagine if we had all eaten it!’
Erik fished inside the bag at his side and handed a fist sized piece of wind-dried fish across. Sturla took it with a smile of appreciation, cutting a sliver with his eating knife before working it around his mouth with his tongue. ‘Although I understand your reasoning lord, I can’t say just how good that food looked last night. Especially after the time we have spent at sea.’
Erik nodded. ‘I have not sailed all the way from Orkney and relieved the largest slave market in the north of its stock, just to let the blue men down here poison the crews and make off with them. Tell me again why we came here instead of heading to Hedeby or through the Baltic to Novgorod.’
‘Apart from the fact that we were only a week’s sailing from Al-Andalus when Skapti went for his dip lord?’
Erik sniggered. ‘Yes, apart from that. If I am to meet with this Joseph ben Hakohen soon I want to appear not as a barbarian oaf, but a king who knows a thing or two about the workings of this trade.’ His eyes flashed as a saying of the high one stole into his mind, and he watched for Sturla’s reaction as the words ordered themselves. He had learnt them by heart alongside Arinbjorn’s sister, Gytha, at foster more years ago than he cared to recall now, back at Thorir’s hall in Naustdal. Arinbjorn had travelled north to visit her at the jarl hall in Moerr when he had made his peace with king Hakon and been confirmed in his inheritance; she was well, with a flock of bairns of her own now; Erik was glad.
‘Wits are needful for a man who travels widely, anything will do at home.
He becomes a laughing-stock the man who knows little, and sits among the wise.’
Sturla beamed at his lord’s wordplay, and Erik feigned wounded feelings as he spoke again. ‘What? You thought that you were the only wise man here?’
‘I will tell you what knowledge I have picked up at ale benches and the like,’ Sturla replied. He made a play of clearing his throat before shooting his lord an expectant smile. Erik laughed, handing across the small barrel of ale which had seen him through the night. Sturla pulled a grin before working the stopper free with his teeth. His thirst slaked, he handed the container back as his tongue flicked out to gather in the last droplets from his moustache. ‘A great tongue loosener is a barrel of ale lord, you can learn a lot if you keep your wits while all around are losing theirs. But of course,’ he added with a curl of his lip. ‘A wise man knows that already.’ Sturla paused, and his face took on a faraway look as he fished about in his memory for an Óðinn saying of his own:
‘Ale isn’t as good as it’s said to be for the sons of men, for the more he drinks the less he knows.
The heron of forgetfulness hovers over ale drinking, it gobbles down men’s wits.’
Erik was poised to pull the plug from the ale barrel, but he hesitated as he reflected on Óðinn’s lesson. ‘Perhaps the Allfather is right,’ he said, placing the container aside. ‘I think that we will have to be sharp of mind if we are to get the best price for our cargo. We may have cut out the middle men by sailing directly here, but we will be very different beasts the slave trader and I. We come from a land where a leader is expected to be open handed with his riches, to take delight in sharing the contents of his treasure hoard. I think,’ he said, casting a look out across the estuary to the town, ‘that our friend Joseph will live by rather different customs.’
Sturla gave a shrug. ‘Custom rules in every land, lord.’
Thorstein spoke from his place at the stern post, and crewmen the length of the ship raised their heads to peer northwards at his words. ‘The boats are setting out, lord,’ he said. ‘Do you want us in mail?’
Erik nodded. ‘See to it, and helms.’ He looked across to the east; upstream the river widened, the great bay already a flickering shield in the light of the returning sun. ‘Let us make the most of the cooler hours to let these southerners know what kind of men have driven their keels to this shore,’ he said with a look of pride. Erik flashed them all a smile. ‘And before the sun becomes hot enough to cook us in it!’
A sea breeze had sprung up the previous evening, and men already weary of the glare and heat of the southern sun had luxuriated in the cooling air. Many had managed the first real sleep since they had made the southern land, and Erik watched as Thorstein moved down the ship and hirdmen paused from erecting the awnings amidships which would be their refuge for the rest of the day to don their war gear.
‘Do you want me to go over the slave routes or the part that the Radhanites play in it lord?’
Erik nodded. ‘Everything you know.’ He flicked a look across the river. The three boats were nearing the halfway point, the splashes from the oar blades pearling in the dawn. ‘And you had best make it quick.’
Joseph ben Hakohen was nothing like Erik had expected. Tall for a southerner and powerfully built, the Radhanite trader exuded charm and grace. With almond eyes, aquiline nose and hair and beard as sleek as Óðinn’s raven he was, Erik decided against his expectation and wishes, a handsome man. Dressed in clothes of the finest linen and eastern silks, the slave trader’s son Yehuda had accompanied his father to view the stock, and Erik waited patiently as the pair moved among the thralls crowded in the hold of the little knarr as they prised jaws apart and ran practiced hands along shoulders, flanks and rumps with all the expertise of the horse traders back home. This was the final group to come under their gaze that morning, and despite the obvious effort of the two men to conceal their excitement, Erik had spotted the avaricious look which had passed between father and son in an unguarded moment and was confident that he could strike a hard bargain.
The pair climbed the ladder back onto the deck as they completed their inspection, and Erik nodded in acceptance as Joseph indicated that he join them aboard the boat where the deal would be struck. ‘I have to apologise once again King Erik,’ the merchant said as they came aboard. ‘Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to boast to my friends that the king of Norwegians had dined and slept beneath the roof of my humble home.’ He peered out from beneath the awning which gave welcome shade to those onboard. A brocade of teal and cherry-red linen, silver thread lifted the rich colouring further as it glistened in the morning sun. Erik followed his gaze, and a surge of pride lifted his mood even higher as he saw the ships of his fleet through foreign eyes. It was true that the people here possessed fine ships of their own, with clean lines and distinctive sub-triangular sails. They had even seen a huge trader with three masts, a ship which the Jewish merchant had told them was known as a markab, making its way south towards the place where the Atlantic met the Middle Sea at the place the Norwegians called Njorva-sund, Njörðr’s Sound, after their own sea god. But Erik recognised the mixture of wonder and apprehension which came into the slaver’s eyes as he ran his eyes across the skei of the fleet, and he knew that no Norseman would trade the sleek craft for any other on Midgard. ‘The leaders of Lishbunah were loathe to admit such a powerful force within the confines of the Cerca Moura, the stone walls which enclose the city, so rather than confine these fine men on board their ships for longer than necessary we thought that we could conclude our business and let you be on your way before the sun sets this day.’
Erik inclined his head in thanks, and Joseph indicated the way to an area near the stern which had been prepared for the negotiations between them. As Erik took his place and his own son Gamli slipped down at his side Joseph was already making his opening gambit, raising a hand to worry his beard as a
pained look washed across his features. ‘Judging by the magnificence of your ships and the men they carried here, I did think that the goods you were offering would be somewhat better than they are…’
Erik let the man prattle on, confident now that he would wring a good price from him, despite his manoeuvrings. It was clear that the city leaders feared the barbarian fleet which had dropped anchor in the roads the previous day, and he allowed himself a snort as he imagined the panic which it had caused among the inhabitants. Erik sipped his wine as he waited for the right moment to speak, and he felt the amusement of Gamli at his side as the slavers made the expected slip.
‘Of course,’ Joseph said in his now familiar oily fashion, ‘we are expecting the annual shipment from Dublin before the autumn storms arrive.’ He exchanged a look with Yehuda at his side, and the younger man nodded eagerly. It was all part of a well rehearsed act, but the comment had confirmed what Erik already knew must be true, news of the sack of Blacaire Gudrodsson’s stronghold had not yet reached the south. They had left the city while fighting was still in progress, and even the enforced stop-off to send Anlaf Crow across the rainbow bridge had cost them little more than a week. ‘But, you already have them,’ Erik said in mock surprise. ‘I am offering to sell you the pick of the slaves from that town.’
Joseph ben Hakohen’s blink betrayed his surprise, but the hardened negotiator recovered quickly, calling for more wine with the waft of a hand as his mind sifted through the possibilities contained within Erik’s announcement. ‘So,’ he said as the servant retreated, ‘there have been developments in the north of which I am as yet unaware?’
Erik inclined his head. ‘I would never presume to teach a Radhanite about the goings on in the world, your sources of information are faultless. But a fleet of skei can move as fast as the wind; there are no faster.’ The slave merchant reclined, sipping from his own glass as he savoured the catastrophe which had overtaken his northern rivals as Erik knew that he would. Sturla had told him that Olaf Cuaran and his cousin Blacaire Gudrodsson had long held the monopoly on slave trading on the island, fiercely resisting the entreaties and rebuffing the gifts offered by the Jewish traders in their efforts to gain a foothold in the lucrative enclave. Erik’s eyes shone as he outlined the goods he had carried south to trade. ‘The pens in Dublin already contained the pick of the slaves available from the island and the western coast of Britain opposite. But we chose only the finest of those,’ he said, ‘the best of the best.’ Erik began to list the qualities as the Radhanites smiled at their good fortune. To be offered trade goods of such high quality was rare, to do so at the expense of their hated rival was Jehovah sent.
Erik took another pull on his wine cup, and the eyes of those sat opposite sparkled as he began. ‘We have young Christian priests, trained in letters with clear skin and no trace of disease for the Byzantine market; young boys in their prime for Persia and the adjoining lands and eunuchs for them both, plus an assortment of firm breasted women with hair of every colour from sable to honey gold.’ Erik held out his glass for a refill and shot the pair a smile. ‘Pay the price I ask and I will not only describe the attack on Dublin so that you can amaze friends and enrage competitors with your knowledge, but you can take full credit when the grateful citizens watch the ebb tide carry our hulls out to sea.’
15
WAR-FIRE
With the wind blowing from dead astern Kolbein guided the bow of the Draki to larboard, peering around the fullness of the sail as the flotilla porpoised south. The hull of the markab sat high in the middle distance, and he exchanged a look with his king as it became plain that the trader had shortened sail. ‘Bowmen?’
Erik nodded. ‘That would explain their behaviour. I am told these easterners use the same short bow as the Finns and Lapps, it would help their aim to have a steady platform to shoot from.’ He rubbed the tip of his nose as he thought. ‘What with the height advantage, the attacking ships could be roughly handled if they carry more than a few bowmen aboard.’
Sturla had retrieved Erik’s leather war shirt from his sea chest, the banner man smearing a final dollop of goose fat on the blood red armour and making a suggestion as he prepared to offer it up for his lord. ‘Maybe we should join the attackers? It would do no harm to back them up, you know sniff around the stern and stretch the defenders?’ Erik raised his arms to the horizontal as Sturla slipped the front and back pieces into place, shaking his head as he began to close them. ‘No,’ he replied as the heavy gold fastenings snapped shut. ‘Two skei should be ample.’ He smiled as the attacking ships bent on sail and bounded ahead, the Auk and the Okse already beginning to draw apart as the styrismen made to double the enemy. ‘Besides, it was my sons’ idea to plunder the trader before we head home. It’s their wager, of all the men on Midgard it is not their father’s place to interfere if they are to act as men will. We will arm, just to be on the safe side.’ He thumped his chest with a fist, nodding with satisfaction at the solidity of the sound. ‘But I expect to sit back and enjoy the show.’
The attackers were a ship’s length ahead now and pulling away as Kolbein pushed the tiller away from his chest, doglegging the Draki to starboard to allow the rest of the fleet to come up. Out of habit Erik looked back, raising a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the southern sun as he checked their disposition. He knew what he would find of course, there was not a styrisman in the company who would need instruction, but the best part of a lifetime at sea had taught the northerner that it always paid to check and check again where the sea was concerned; Rán, spæ-wife of the sea giant Ægir, rarely let the chance pass her by to punish sloppy seamanship with a one-way ride in her drowning net. He had had his fair share of narrow escapes over the years like all men who plied the seas, from whale smashed keels to arctic storms which lasted a month, and he knew that the sea hag’s appetite for fresh meat was savage and insatiable.
The formation was as he expected to find it; the Draki leading the three knarrs in line astern with the Sea Stallion leading the Reindyr off the larboard beam, while Arnkel in the Iron Beard and Gauti Thorodsson’s Bison shepherded them to seaward. He had toyed with the idea of having Arinbjorn take them northwards while they went after the markab and whatever cargo she carried in her deep belly, but it never paid to split a force in hostile waters and he had quickly discounted the idea. Gamli and Harald had been allowed three days to find the trader before they turned their prows for home waters, and now, on the afternoon of the second, it would appear that they were about to get their wish.
Kolbein centred the tiller as the rest of the fleet reached them, and Erik skipped down from the steering platform as the men working the ship squared off the spar and belayed the sheets. The crewmen smiled the smile of men made wealthy by the efforts of their king as he passed, and Erik allowed his minds-eye to see through the decking to the silver stashed below. More than the ben Hakohen family finances had received a fillip the day that the barbarian fleet had put their prows into the estuary of the River Tagus. Most of the slavers were located in the capital city of the caliphate of Al-Andalus at Qurtuba, home Erik had heard it said to more men than lived in every fjord, dale and island of the North Way combined. Now with the fall of distant Dublin and Erik’s plundering of the slave market there, not only would far fewer slaves be making their way south that year but the best of those who did were already safely secured in the ben Hakohen slave pens. Other slaves would be arriving from the north of course, predominantly via the River Rhone from Verdun in Frankia, the same river that had given the Radhanites their name. But Erik had brought more than fresh stock south, he had been the first to carry the news of Dublin’s fall. Sturla had been right, that news had been worth silver on its own, and he had been able to use the fact to wrest the very best price from the trader. Joseph’s son Yehuda had already left on a fast horse by the time that the contents of the knarr’s holds had been exchanged for precious metals and exotic goods, off to use that knowledge to the family’s advantage,
stealing a march on competitors still blissfully unaware that the market had shrunk that year.
Erik found that he was up in the prow as his mind returned from its travels, Hauk’s wide smile filling his vision before he clapped the lookout on the shoulder, moved to one side and peered ahead. Running before the wind the ship was surging ahead, the rhythmic seesawing of the hull throwing back a veil of spray each time the Draki buried her head in the Atlantic swell. Already the Okse and the Auk were fifty yards apart, his sons’ ships back on course as they bore down on the Moorish trader, and Erik gripped the forestay to haul himself up onto the wale as he ran an experienced eye across the upper works of the markab. With the sails shortened it was possible to see the three masts clearly for the first time, the two aft upright with a smaller one raked for’ard, each one carrying its spread of sail on a sloping spar arranged fore and aft unlike anything he had seen before. The ship had been the talk of the Norwegian crews, ever since it had been worked into deeper water from the dockside in Lishbunah; now they would see just how well these blue men could fight a ship. Satisfied that no bowmen had stationed themselves aloft, Erik moved his eyes down to the hull of the craft itself. White clad figures scurried to and fro but the big paddle at the stern which must act as the rudder was centred, the running rigging was clearly belayed, and he calmed himself as his eyes moved down to the two skei and saw the boarding parties beginning to bunch in the bows.
A wisp of smoke, gossamer thin but thickening quickly, rose from the deck of the big ship, and Erik shared a look with Sturla as Helgrim and Thorstein came to his side. Helgrim formed their thoughts into words, even as the first trace of flame blossomed at the base. ‘Why are they on fire?’