‘Very well,’ I said to Abram, ‘arrange the charter. Just make sure that we get on our way as quickly as possible.’
Protis made good his boast when it came to devising a way of lifting the aurochs and its cage. He and his sailors took a short, stubby mast from near the bow and repositioned it to project out over the side of the vessel. With a complicated web of ropes and pulleys they succeeded in hoisting the great animal, still in its cage, and placing it on deck just behind the main mast. The ice bears in their cage followed soon afterwards and were set down on the foredeck. In another of the young captain’s inspirations he then had his men cut the smallest of our river ferries in half and one section brought aboard. His ship’s carpenter built up the sides with extra planks, blanked off the open end, and re-caulked the seams. It transformed the vessel into a water tank for our menagerie. Meanwhile Abram’s men had been scouring the countryside for supplies. Several cartloads of grass and fodder were delivered to the dock, along with crates of live chickens for the bears, gyrfalcons and dogs. When all was ready, Abram paid our river boatmen their final wages and the three remaining ferries towed Protis’s venerable ship out into mid-river. There, her large, threadbare mainsail was let loose to catch the breeze. We began slowly to head towards the waiting sea, looking and smelling like a farmyard and leaving a trail of hay wisps on the murky surface of the river.
Chapter Ten
‘I’ve made this voyage a dozen times, and never a problem,’ Protis boasted. We were standing on deck, side by side, and it was a splendid morning, the second of our sea voyage. The breeze was just enough to belly out the sail and the sun sparkled off a sea that showed a brighter, sharper blue than anything I had seen in northern waters. A flock of gulls wheeled and hovered alongside, attracted by the occasional splashes of water as our sailors dumped buckets of bilge overboard. Unsurprisingly, the hull of Protis’s ramshackle vessel was far from watertight.
‘I recall you saying that your family have been seafarers for generations,’ I remarked, making conversation.
‘As far back as any family in Massalia, and proud of it. My parents named me after the city’s founder.’ Our youthful captain liked to chat, and once he got into his stride he was almost unstoppable. ‘The first Protis was from Greece, far back in the mists of time, a trader who dropped anchor in a sheltered bay along the coast. The daughter of a local chieftain fell in love with him, the two got married, and they and their people flourished. Massalia grew up around the same natural harbour. My family tradition is to name one of the sons after the city’s founder.’
‘So your father was also called Protis?’
He nodded. ‘Though it brought him no luck. He went down with his ship in a sudden, bad storm when I was just a toddler. My grandfather taught me my sea skills. He’s now retired, of course. His eyesight’s gone.’
That might explain the age of the vessel, I thought to myself. Protis had probably inherited it from his grandfather, a vessel put back into service after the family’s other and newer ship had sunk.
‘To lose one’s eyesight is hard for anyone,’ I sympathized.
The young captain smiled sadly. He was obviously fond of his grandfather. ‘It’s the worst thing that can happen to a mariner. He needs good eyes. We make most of our voyages following the coast or sailing from one island to the next one already visible on the horizon.’
He pointed away to our left. ‘Right now we are staying well off shore for safety, yet close enough so that I can keep in sight those mountains.’
Judging by the number of other sails we had seen moving in both directions along the coast, it was how most captains navigated locally. Sailing from one port to the next in the Mediterranean did not appear to be as demanding as the conditions Redwald faced when finding his way from Dorestad to Kaupang.
‘Do we follow the coast all the way to Rome?’ I asked, trying to visualize what Abram’s itinerarium had shown.
‘There are one or two stretches where we lose sight of the mountains because the land is too low. At those places we will steer further off shore and take a more direct route to our destination.’
One of the sailors in the bailing team put down his bucket and came aft to speak with us. He said something to Protis in a language I did not understand and supposed was Greek.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Protis. ‘There’s something I need to attend to.’
He followed the man across the deck to the main hatchway leading down into the ship’s hold and I watched as he climbed down a ladder. Several minutes passed and then he reappeared. He was looking perplexed.
‘Anything wrong?’ I asked.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ he answered airily. Turning to his helmsman, he gave an order. Our course altered slightly and the ship began to slant closer to the land.
‘Just a precaution,’ he explained to me. ‘The bailing crew are having difficulty keeping pace with the water in the hold.’
Half an hour passed and I stood with him in companionable silence, enjoying the warmth of the sun soaking into my body, the easy rocking motion of the ship beneath my feet and the sensation of being carried effortlessly towards our destination. My reverie was interrupted by a shout from the bailing crew and this time there was no mistaking the alarm in the man’s voice.
Protis strode forward to the hatchway once more, kicked off his shoes, and again disappeared, for longer this time.
I could see that something was seriously amiss. The deck crew had gathered around the hatchway and were casting worried glances at one another. The lookout stationed in the bows abandoned his post, and came back to join his companions.
I strolled forward and stood beside them. Peering down into the half-darkness of the hold I could make out several crew members up to their thighs in water. They were lifting up smooth round stones the size of a large loaf from under the surface and setting them aside. I recalled what Redwald had said about a ship needing to carry ballast stones low down to keep her upright. The men who had lifted the stones aside were also reaching down into the water, feeling around, then moving on to repeat the process nearby. Various odds and ends of loose lumber floated back and forth, nuzzling up against their thighs. There was no sign of Protis. Suddenly he surfaced with a splutter, took a deep breath, and immediately dived down again. There was a brief glimpse of his bare feet kicking at the surface, and then he was gone, swimming inside the belly of his own ship.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked one of the crew, an older man with grizzled, close-cropped hair, and dressed in a torn dirty shirt and ragged trousers.
He understood my Latin well enough to answer. ‘Trying to find exactly where so much water is getting in. The leak is bad, and gaining on us.’
One of the men down in the hold looked up, saw the circle of faces peering down, and gave an angry shout. Beside me two of the crew hurried off to fetch extra buckets and lowered them on ropes. They were filled with bilge water, then hauled up hand over hand, and their contents dumped over the side.
Abram had come up to join me and, after questioning the old man in Greek, he turned to me. ‘The ship has a pump, but it is very old and it broke on the way to the salt jetty. That’s why they’re having to use buckets.’
‘Can’t the pump be repaired?’ I enquired.
The dragoman shook his head. ‘Apparently the pump is such an ancient design that the broken part is impossible to replace.’