Oh indeed? thought Duffy angrily, putting a little more vigor into each hoist of the arm. Soon he saw the hunchback’s worried face peering down at him from the lip of the catwalk, and it grew closer with every desperate pull on the rope. Finally he hooked one hand over the coping and Bluto was helping to drag him up onto the warming flagstones, where he lay gasping for a while.
“You’re too old to climb ropes,” Bluto panted as he hauled the snaky length in.
“As I... just demonstrated,” the Irishman agreed. He sat up. “I want to see... these famous Vikings.”
“Well, step over here. Actually, they’re kind of a disappointment. A few are in the canal now, chopping clumps of algae, but the rest just sit around looking wilted.”
Duffy got to his feet and slumped in one of the north-facing crenels. Fifty feet below him was the Donau Canal, and a ship lay in the water under the Taborstrasse bridge, its red and white striped sail flapping listlessly.
“Are they real Vikings?” Duffy asked. “What are they doing here, anyway?”
Bluto just shrugged.
“I’m going to get a closer look,” Duffy decided. “Tie that rope around the merlon here and throw it down the outside of the wall. Or no free beer tomorrow night,” he added, seeing the hunchback’s annoyed look. The Irishman pulled his gloves out from under his belt and put them on as Bluto dealt with the rope; then he stepped up on the crenellations—to the awe of several little boys—and slipped the rope behind his right thigh and over his left shoulder. “See you later,” he said, and leaned away from the wall, sliding down the rope and braking with the grip of his right hand. Within a minute he was standing on the pavement next to the canal bank as Bluto pulled the rope up once again.
There were even people out here, elbowing each other and calling sarcastic questions to the dour mariners. Muttering impatient curses under his breath, Duffy walked west along the bank to a cluster of wooden duck-cages that formed a sort of pier jutting out into the green-scummed water. He cautiously got up on top of the first one—and it held his weight, though the ducks within set up a squawking, splashing clamor. “Shut up, ducks,” he growled as he crawled out along the cage-pier, for their racket was drawing the amused attention of the canal bank crowd.
When he reached the outmost cage he sat down on it, and was rewarded for all his efforts with a clear view of the grounded but graceful ship. The oars, several of which were broken off short, had been drawn in and stuck upright in holes by the oarlocks, and nearly formed a fence around the deck. Duffy was trying hard to be impressed by the sight, and imagine himself as one of his own ancestors facing such northern barbarians in Dublin Bay or on the plain of Clontarf, but these weary old men languidly hacking at the canal weed put a damper on his imagination. These must be the very last of the breed, he decided, devoting their remaining years to a search for a fitting place to die.
A sharp crack sounded under him, and his perch sagged abruptly. Holy God, he thought, I’ll be dumped in the canal if I don’t move fast. He shifted back onto another board, which gave way entirely, leaving him hanging by his knees and one hand, nearly upside-down. There were roars of laughter from the bank. His rapier slid half out of its scabbard; he risked a grab for it, the last plank buckled, and he was plunged into the icy water in a tangle of boards and hysterical ducks. He rolled thrashingly over, trying to swim before his mail shirt could drag him down, and his sword caught against one of the floating planks and snapped in half. “God damn it!” he roared, snatching the hilt before it sank.
He swam clear of the wreckage, and found the meagre current carrying him downstream, toward the Viking ship and the rippling sheets of green canal scum. None of the northmen had noticed him yet, though the citizens on the wall and the bank were absolutely convulsed with merriment.
Still clutching his broken sword, Duffy dived and swam a distance under the surface—he’d discovered his mail-shirt to be a bearable encumbrance—hoping to avoid the worst of the scum and mockery. It’s just possible no one recognized me, he thought as he frog-kicked his way through the cold water.
Bugge looked up when he heard splashing by the larboard gunwale, and at first he thought some Viennese had fallen into the canal and was trying to climb aboard. Then, the blood draining from his wide-eyed face, he saw two slimy green arms appear at the rail, followed a moment later by their owner, a tall, grim-looking man covered with canal scum and clutching a broken sword. In a moment this ominous newcomer had clambered aboard and was standing in a puddle of water between the rowers’ benches.
Bugge dropped to his knees, and the rest of the Vikings on board followed his example. “Sigmund!” he gasped. “My men and I greet you and await your orders.”
Duffy didn’t understand Norse, but he understood that these Vikings had somehow mistaken him for someone—and who could that be? He simply stood there and looked stern, hoping some solution would present itself.
There was a commotion on the bridge above; several people shouted quit shoving! and then Aurelianus leaned out over the rail. “What is this?” he called anxiously. “I missed the beginning.”
Duffy waved at the kneeling northmen. “They seem to think I’m somebody else.”
Bugge glanced timidly up, saw Aurelianus’ white-fringed, eye-patched face peering down at him, and simply pitched forward onto the deck. “Odin!” he howled. The other mariners also dropped flat, and the ones in the water, peeking now through the oarlocks, whimpered in the clutch of real awe.
“This is very odd,” Aurelianus observed. “Did they say who they believe you are?”
“Uh... Sigmund,” said the Irishman. “Unless that means ‘who the hell are you.’”
“Ah!” said Aurelianus after a moment, nodding respectfully. “We’re dealing with the real thing here, beyond a doubt!”
“What the devil do you mean? Get me out of here. I’m a laughingstock—covered with filth and carrying a broken sword.”
“Hang onto the sword. I’ll explain later.” With more agility than Duffy would have expected, the eternally black-clad old man vaulted the bridge rail and landed in a relaxed crouch on the ship’s central catwalk. Then, to the Irishman’s further surprise, Aurelianus strode confidently to the prostrate captain, touched him on the shoulder and began to speak to him in Norse.
Duffy simply stood by, feeling like a clown, as the Viking captain and his crew got reverently to their feet. Bugge answered several questions Aurelianus put to him, and then crossed to where the Irishman stood and knelt before him.
“Touch his shoulder with your sword,” Aurelianus told him. “Do it!”
Duffy did it, with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Very good,” Aurelianus said with a nod. “Ho!” he called to the interested gawkers on the shore. “Bring some sturdy planks here, quick! Captain Bugge and his men are ready to disembark.”
It was a bizarre parade that Epiphany saw marching up the street, heralded by the wild barking of dogs. She stood in the Zimmermann’s doorway and gaped at these twenty-one armed Vikings being led by what appeared to be a revivified drowned man. Then, paling, she recognized him.
“Oh, Brian!” she wailed. “They’ve killed you again!”
Immediately Aurelianus was behind her shoulder, having somehow got into the building unnoticed. “Shut up,” he hissed. “He’s in fine health, just fell in the canal. He can tell you all about it later. Right now get back to work.”
Duffy led his gray warriors around back to the stables, and said hello to Werner, who was fastidiously picking up some lettuce leaves that had fallen out of a garbage bin.