Suleiman. “If we decide we're still in alliance with the Caliph, that is.”
Shef shook his head. “No. Even if we made a profit, we'd be going home without what we came for.
“Just in case you've all forgotten, we came for knowledge. At least I did. Knowledge of flight. And now, knowledge of fire. Don't forget, if the Empire of the Christians has learnt that, the next time we meet it may be in the English Channel. Home isn't safe any more.”
“Nowhere else to go,” insisted Brand doggedly. “Only safe thing to do is keep moving. There are no safe harbors left. Not here in the Inner Sea.”
A long pause, while the ship rocked gently on the halcyon water. The sun burned down above them, crewmen stretched out on the decks, luxuriating in idleness and warmth, new experiences for almost all of them. The ships' holds were stuffed still with food and full water barrels. No need for care, or no immediate need. Yet the weight of decision pressed down. Home was many miles away for English and Vikings alike, and between it and them lay only hosts of enemies: enemies and uncertain friends.
Suleiman broke the silence. As he did so he began to unwind the turban that he had never been seen to shed before.
“It is possible that I can find you a safe harbor,” he said. “As you know, there are many of my people, the Jews, who live under the rule of the Caliph of Cordova. What I have not yet told you is that there are some—many —who live, well, not entirely under it.”
“At the other end of the Inner Sea?” queried Shef. “In the land where Christ was crucified, whatever they call it?”
Suleiman completed the unwinding of the turban, shook out the long hair it had bound in. On his head now there was only a small round cap, fixed on seemingly with hairpins. Out of the corner of his eye Shef noticed that the young Mu'atiyah had half-risen to his feet, been dragged down again by Cwicca and Osmod, was being restrained none too gently. Something was going on that he did not understand.
“No,” said Suleiman. “At this end. To the north, between the kingdom of the Franks and the Caliphate of Cordova. There, in the mountains, my people have lived, along with others of different religions, for many years. They pay a tax to the Caliph, but they do not always obey him. I think you will be welcome there.”
“If it's north,” said Brand, “it will be the Christians we have to fear now, not the Caliph.”
Suleiman shook his head. “The mountain passes are difficult, and we have many strongholds. In any case, as the fair princess said last night, my people have much experience in—being a corridor. The troops of the Emperor marched through by permission, never entering a town. It would be a major campaign for him to take our princedom. Septimania we call it, though the Franks among us say Roussillon. Come to Septimania. There you can judge a new faith.”
“Why do you make us this offer?” asked Shef.
Suleiman looked across at Svandis, standing out of earshot by the rail.
“For many years I have been a servant of the book, Torah or Talmud or even Koran. Now you—some of you —have shown me something different. Now I too share your desire for new knowledge. Knowledge outside the book.”
Shef turned his one eye across to the still-struggling Mu'atiyah. “Let him go, Cwicca.” He went on in his simple Arabic. “Mu'atiyah, what you have to say, say it. Say it with care.”
The young man, released, rose instantly to his feet. One hand was on the hilt of the dagger in his belt, but both Cwicca and Osmod were crouched ready to drag him down again if he moved. Shef saw Thorvin slip the hammer he always carried in his belt free. But Mu'atiyah seemed too furious to care for threats. His voice shaking, he pointed to Suleiman.
“Dog of a Jew! For years you have eaten the bread of the Caliph, your people have taken his protection. Now you seek to break free, to leave the Shatt al-Islam, the path of submission to Allah. You will ally yourself with anyone, like some noseless whore in a kennel. Yet beware! If you seek to let the Christians into Andalusia, they will remember you for killing their god—may the curse of Allah rest on those who worship one born in a bed! And if you seek to ally with”—he swept an arm round—“with
Faces turned to Shef and Skaldfinn, waiting for translation. “He's calling Suleiman a traitor,” Shef observed. “He doesn't think much of us either.”
“Why don't we just throw him overboard?” asked Brand.
Shef thought for a long minute before replying. Mu'atiyah, who had not understood the brief interchange, nevertheless sensed from Shef's immobile face and Brand's jerked thumb something of what was going on. His face paled, he began to speak, stopped and tried to draw himself up with an appearance of composure.
Finally Shef spoke. “He's certainly useless as regards knowledge. But I liked his master, bin-Firnas. We'll keep him. Maybe he can serve as an envoy one day. And he has done one thing for us.” He looked round, met Skaldfinn's eyes. “He's confirmed that what Suleiman here said was true. Otherwise we'd have no reason to believe it. A Jewish city, in Spain! Who would believe it? But it seems it must be true. I say that we should sail there. Find a base. Try to frustrate the plans of the Christians. Not the Christians, we have no quarrel with them. Of the Church and the Holy Empire it supports and the Emperor who supports it.”
“And see what we can learn about the Greek fire,” amplified Thorvin.
“And give Steffi there another chance to fly,” agreed Shef.
Round the listening circle heads nodded, there was a growl of agreement. Suleiman's dark eyes took it in, showed a gleam of pleasure.
From the mast-head there came a hail. “To the north there! A sail. Three-cornered one. Looks like a fishing boat, maybe four miles off. Steering west, might not have seen us yet.”
Shef walked to the prow, clicked open his far-seer, tried to see if he could pick out the sail-tip nicking the horizon.
“Do you think
“In this calm, easy.”
“Go over there then, sink the boat, kill everyone aboard.”
Brand hesitated. “I don't mind killing people, you know,” he said. “But they could be just fishermen making a living.”
“And they could be spies for the Greeks. Or both at once. We can't take any chances on that. Just go over and do it. Use the crossbows if you're feeling squeamish.”
Shef turned and walked away, obviously heading for his hammock, the conference as far as he was concerned at an end. Brand stared after him, his face perplexed.
“That's the one who was always telling me to go easy on the looting, always fretting about the slaves.”
“He still frets about slaves,” remarked Thorvin.
“But he'll kill off innocent people for nothing, just because they might be a risk. Not even for amusement, like Ivar would have, or to make them talk, like old Hairy-Breeks.”
“Maybe Loki is loose,” said Thorvin. “Better go do what he says.” He clutched his hammer pendant protectively.
The same day, the same time, and no longer so many miles away, Bruno Emperor of the Franks, the Germans, the Italians and the Burgundians, slowly and reluctantly raised his shield, to protect his face not from the arrows that had flown at him all day, their snapped-off points studding the leather facing of his shield. No, only from the heat that surged and crackled from the blazing tower in front of him. He did not want to lose sight of the tower, hoping against hope that some last cry would rise from it, some turn of fortune would come to save the day. Yet, even for his ascetic frame, the heat was too much to be borne.
It had been a bad day all along, yet another bad day. He had been sure the fortress would fall this time, and fall it had. Yet he had hoped, expected, after the trials of the days before, that the defenders would see sense, take his offer, accept the mercy that they could hardly have expected. His system for razing these mountain fortresses had been worked out again and again against the Moslems of the coast, and his men understood it. The first thing was to get the great counterweight-catapult that Erkenbert had built close enough to throw its one titanic rock on to the top of the gate. Smash the gate, take the fortress. But the catapult had terrible limitations. Unlike the lighter onagers, or the dart-shooters or man-powered weapons, the counterweight-machine had to be set up on the flat. On the flat, and close to its target, no more than two hundred double paces.
