He found himself sitting next to one of the youngest members of the crew, a slim, fair-haired man named Sven. They had exchanged several remarks during the long day at sea, Sven’s post being just behind Rollo. Now, as the other crewmen chattered and ribbed each other, and good-natured squabbles broke out over the best pieces of stew, once again Sven started a conversation with him. Perhaps, Rollo reflected, the young man was pleased to have a new shipmate who was nearer to his own age. The majority of the crew were seasoned sailors with many years’ experience behind them.
‘Tomorrow will be easier than today,’ Sven said, picking a flake of fish out of his front teeth.
‘Today wasn’t too bad,’ Rollo observed.
Sven glanced at him. ‘You did all right,’ he acknowledged. ‘The master said he wouldn’t sail without one more crewman, which means you’re a bit of a godsend, since most of us were getting pretty impatient to get away and set off for home.’ He grinned.
‘Glad to be of service,’ Rollo said, smiling. But, even as he spoke the mild response, part of his mind had gone on the alert. Most of us were impatient, Sven had just said. Who, he wondered, was the exception?
Sven leaned closer. ‘Reckon he thought it’d have been unlucky, sailing with an odd number of rowers,’ he said very quietly, jerking his head towards the master.
‘Really?’ Rollo had never heard that superstition before.
Sven was slowly shaking his head, his light eyes still on the master. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘There’s been something up with him, that’s for sure.’ He leaned closer. ‘We had a terrible journey down to Miklagard,’ he whispered. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you, but the whole bloody lot of us almost came to grief on the rapids. That was where we lost our men,’ he added, his face falling.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rollo said gravely. ‘I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been.’
‘They were good men,’ Sven said very quietly. His youthful face showed his emotion. ‘We carved their names on the stone,’ he added in a whisper. ‘They won’t be forgotten.’
Rollo wanted to hear more about the master’s strange mood. ‘Losing crewmen would be enough, I’d guess, to rob a man of his peace of mind,’ he observed.
Sven flashed him an anxious glance. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You just said there was something up with the master,’ Rollo replied softly.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Sven said. He glanced round the circle of faces, lit by the dancing flames. Everyone else was busy eating and talking, and the occasional loud burst of laughter echoed in the stillness. Apparently reassured, Sven leaned closer and said, ‘For all the haste to get down to Miklagard, once we were there, that’s where we stayed, for week after week.’ Again, he glanced nervously around. ‘It looked as if he was afraid of what lay ahead, although we knew that couldn’t be, not when he’d brought us all that way.’ He paused, frowning as if the matter still perplexed him. ‘None the less, we couldn’t help but conclude that the master was reluctant to go on.’
‘Go on?’
Sven raised the hand holding his eating knife and waved it around. ‘With the journey,’ he muttered. ‘Miklagard was never our goal. We’re going on to-’ Abruptly he stopped. Looking up, Rollo noticed the master’s cold, unblinking eyes on them.
It was the moment for improvisation. ‘Put that knife down!’ he said, pushing Sven’s hand away and forcing a laugh. ‘Go ahead and stab another piece of fish, but let me get out of the way first!’
Several of the crew joined in. It sounded as if the teasing, ribald remarks were part of a well-rehearsed and frequently repeated litany. Risking a quick glance at Skuli, Rollo saw that even he was smiling. Hoping that the master’s suspicions hadn’t been alerted, he helped himself to more stew.
They made good, steady progress the following day. In the mid-morning of the day after that, Skuli steered Gullinbursti out into the deep, strong current flowing down the Dardanelles, and, with minimal effort on the crew’s behalf, the ship’s pace increased until it felt as if they were flying over the wave-tops. The huge volume of water pouring steadily and constantly out of the Black Sea towards the Mediterranean swept them along, and there was little to do except steer. At the helm, however, Skuli was constantly on the alert, and quick to shout at any man who didn’t keep his eyes open.
Watching the master as closely as he was, Rollo could have pinpointed the moment when his mood began to alter. From the start, he had given the impression of a man with something on his mind. Other than the regular, tersely given commands, he spoke little. He never smiled, and, as the days passed, Rollo noticed that his brooding presence was gradually darkening the mood of the crew.
The change began when, as the narrow Dardanelles strait began to widen into the Mediterranean, abruptly Skuli left his place in the stern and paced the length of the ship up into the bows. He stayed there for some moments, gazing at the southern shore far away to his left, down into the water, then back at the shore. It was as if he was looking for something; a marker, perhaps, by which to determine their progress. He went back to his accustomed place at the tiller, only to repeat the exercise a little while later.
His actions had allowed Rollo to catch a glimpse of his expression. The inward-looking, grave-faced man seemed to have vanished. In his place was a man who appeared to be barely containing his excitement.
Rollo looked around at the crew, expecting his surprise to be reflected in other faces. It wasn’t. One or two looked fearful; Sven was muttering under his breath, and Rollo thought he was praying. The rest were all staring out to the south, as if some invisible force drew their gaze and they could not look away. On the faces of many was the same expression: awe.
Skuli was once again standing in the ship’s prow, one hand on the great, soaring figurehead. His back had been turned to his crew, but now he spun round. The sun was beginning to set, and for an instant he was silhouetted against its golden light, so that a shining halo seemed to encircle his head. He was transformed; a smile of sheer joy had altered his appearance almost beyond recognition.
What was happening? Rollo, apprehension making him suddenly cold, waited.
‘Now we are close, my friends!’ Skuli said softly. Then, raising his arms as if to embrace both ship and crew, he cried, ‘The great challenge is before us! The goal for which we have strived so hard, risked so much and lost precious lives, is now within our grasp.’ His light eyes, wide as if he were seeing far beyond the range of normal human vision, roamed over the faces of his crew, smiling, nodding. Then he raised his head and shouted out into the evening sky, ‘Will we go on, my friends? Will we achieve our purpose, here in this place so far from our homes?’
And, to a man, the crew shouted back, ‘YES!’
The ship was suddenly busy with bustling activity, as men ran to what were clearly pre-arranged places. Skuli leapt nimbly back to the tiller, leaning heavily against it, and Gullinbursti, instantly responsive, heeled over hard and turned in a steep, graceful circle so that her bows and her proud figurehead were sailing due south. Tostig raised his mighty voice in song, and the crew picked it up, singing with him, harmonizing, until the air seemed to thrum with the noise.
Now they were racing along, the vast sail filled with a strong, steady breeze that came from the north. A shudder of superstitious dread ran through Rollo; the notion had leapt into his head that the singing had raised that perfect wind, and he had to fight very hard to force his reason to dispel it.
The southern shore was in sight now, coming towards them alarmingly fast. Struggling to concentrate, Rollo tried to recall what he knew of the local geography. The coastline ahead of them formed a plain, built up over the centuries from the silt washed down the Scamander River as it flowed into the Dardanelles. The waters were shallow and treacherous, and not fit for ships. The nearest port was around the bulge of the coast, away to the south.