The Wolf Sea

camels Aliabu had given us for our gear along a road choked with beggars and cripples, pilgrims and thieves, merchants and soldiers.

None spared us more than a glance, not even when they saw our wild hair, blue eyes and weapons.

Afrangi, we heard them say, then offer whatever they offered to Allah to spare them from evil.

The guards on the gate looked us over warily and we did likewise to them, for these were Sarakenoi and we had been fighting them only recently. But such was the strange way of things here that they shrugged and passed us through the Bab al-Sahairad, the gate named after the Mussulman burial howes nearby and which means 'Gate of those who do not sleep at night'.

As we went, a guard said something which the Goat Boy, puzzled, told me was to do with 'the peace of Umar', which just bewildered us all.

It was fitting, when I looked back on this and other omens, that we should have come into this holy city of the Christ-men through a gate meant for dead men and later spat out of it through the Dung Gate, used to dump their shit.

The stink and the heat was a hammer blow and we stopped in a teeming square, the first one we saw with water, then had to bat the camels aside for a chance at it. I surfaced, blowing water and luxuriating in the feel of it coursing down my back. There were cries of outrage as we muddied the trough and the surrounding area, but we put hands to hilts and scowled.

My ring-coat was rolled up on a camel; but I still sweated in stinking wool and had gone through too much to be cursed at by a pack of Saracen goat-fuckers.

`Shame on you, Orm Ruriksson, in this holiest of holy cities,' growled Brother John when I voiced this same opinion out loud — and provoked laughter from the others, enough for me to think that all it took to fasten us together again was a little water and a common foe.

`The Trader's right,' Finn agreed. 'Let them mutter. I have skulked and crawled through their festering desert until even my prick is full of sand. Enough. If these shits want to kill me, here I stand.'

And he did, wet hair straggling, flying round his shoulders as he spread his arms wide and spun in a circle. 'Here I am, you goat-fucking eaters of dogs,' he bellowed at the top of his voice, thumping his chest with both fists. 'Finn Bardisson from Skani, whom they call Horsehead, is ready for you. Are there any takers?'

There was a moment when everything stopped and was still, a marvellous thing in that teeming place.

Then the noise crashed in again and people moved on their way and into their own talk, leaving Finn standing with his wild-bearded chin out and his arms flung high. Few looked at us now and none made growls in our direction.

Ah, shit,' said Kvasir suddenly, seeing two spear-armed guards come up. 'Well done, Finn Bardisson from Skani, whom they call Horsearse, we are not two minutes in the city and you have brought trouble on us, I am thinking.'

The guards stopped and rattled off in their tongue, which I had picked up enough of to know they wanted to talk to the leader. Me. The Goat Boy, pale but still standing, closed in beside me like a shadow and we fell into the three-handed conversation we had grown skilled at.

The exchange was brief and sharp and polite. We were in the wrong quarter and would be more at home moving to the foreign side of the city, for most afrangi and others usually entered through the Jaffa Gate, which was west. Unless we were Jews or Armenians, in which case we should go south.

Either way, we'd better do it quick, for the Peace of Umar was a pact which Sarakenoi had with the Christ-men, forbidding the latter to wear Arab clothing or carry weapons, among other silly things. We should comport ourselves more seemly, too, for there was bad feeling for Greeks and Christ- followers in the city, who outnumbered everyone else, but had no power.

`We aren't Christ-men,' snorted Finn, truculently, then caught Brother John's eye and shrugged. 'Well, just new ones and not like the puling bairns they usually see.'

We went west, pushing down the narrow, crowded streets, the Goat Boy in front to call out warnings and Finn, Kvasir and Short Eldgrim swaggering behind him, hands on sword hilts to make the point a little more firmly. On the way, I saw the marks of old fires, charred black buildings and ruins, so it was clear there had been trouble.

It took a long time in the swelter of early afternoon and we were practically at the Jaffa Gate when we spotted camels and what appeared to be mud-brick hovs for travellers. At the same time, we were swamped by those who wanted our custom.

I picked an evil, scar-faced individual and negotiated a price. The Oathsworn straggled in and started unloading their gear, in a street where cookstalls elbowed each other for space and the braziers and ovens belched out even more heat.

The smell of hot oil and cooking meat was heady enough to send most of us lumbering over for cubes of lamb on olive-wood skewers, or vine leaves stuffed with shredded goat, or flakes of fish, pungent cheese, figs, those limon fruits we loved. The desert had kicked out all our dreams of smiling naked virgins with bags of silver and a horn of ale and replaced them with ones of such food, washed down with fountains of crystal-clear water.

They wandered back, beards greasy, chewing and smiling and blowing burned fingers. They sat cross-legged in the shade and, within the space of an hour, were sorting through gear and starting to fix what they could.

`They seem quieter now,' muttered Kvasir, handing me two skewers of lamb. 'It would be better if we had some hope of plunder at the end of this, though, Trader.'

`We have had gods'-luck so far,' I pointed out, 'for these Mussulmen could just as easily have caused us grief. If we go robbing them, I am thinking their goodwill will be shortened.'

Kvasir nodded reluctantly. 'In that case, we had better find Starkad and get this over with in a hurry.

After that, I am thinking it would be a good idea to go back and raid Cyprus on the way to our silver hoard.

That way we will not only get loot, but the Danes will have had some revenge on those who held them prisoner.'

This was alarming, for Leo Balantes' promises still rang in my ears and getting past his ships would take more gods'-luck than I thought we had. Still, it came to me that it was no bad thing to tell the Danes, which thought I shared with Kvasir.

He chuckled and nodded. Now you are thinking, Trader. Einar could not do better.'

He meant well of it, but the fact that he was right chilled me on that searing afternoon, so that my smile back at him was sickly.

As he turned to spread this, casual as a rumour, I was at least glad Brother John was out of earshot, for one more knowing look from him would put an end to our friendship. The fetch of Einar hung about the rest of that day and into the yellow-lit night, where the smell of frying meat seemed to grow even stronger, the cries of vendors even more shrill.

We had scared everyone else off from this hov, much to Scar Face's scowling annoyance. He had twice tried to up his price and twice been sent packing, the second time with the threat of Finn's boot up the arse if he came back a third time. Since our purses were thinner than the wind, this was all he would get.

Those same thin purses kept most of the men sitting morosely round the fire, hugging dreams of Cyprus plunder and revenge to themselves as if they were naked women. Those with money juggled the sense of new boots with the hook of drink and women; I was wrestling with this myself, in the middle of this Street of Poor Cooking, when Brother John bustled up, bird-bright and wearing the brown robe of a Christ priest, which he had never done before.

I had it from the monks of the Holy Sepulchre, no less,' he told me cheerfully. 'Though they are unrequited heathen Greeks, they have such vestments for pilgrims.'

`The holy what?' I demanded, bemused by the sheer, shining ferocity of the little Irish priest.

`The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The new one, since the original was broken down some three hundred years ago by the heathens, may God have mercy on their benighted souls.'

`Whisper that in this place,' I told him, shaking my head that anyone could think a three-hundred-year-old building was new. 'I am glad you found some friendly Christ-men, Brother John, for it seems to have lightened your