by Henry Treece
Harald said, ‘Look you, master Frank, we are in a sad plight. Let us have done with talk of heathen and such like. Will you help us?’
The other smiled and nodded. ‘I shall, my friend,’ he said. ‘For I shall buy the three of you now, if I can get you at a reasonable price, and if you will promise me that you will not get up to your berserk tricks as soon as you leave this place.’
Harald answered, ‘I do not like being a slave, but you seem a fair-minded man for a Frank, and I will promise that we will not try to break your neck, or even to run away for the time being. Is that enough?’
The man nodded and added, ‘If you break your word, it will go uncomfortably with you, one way and another. I say no more; Abu Mazur is a good master but a cruel enemy. That is his rule of life.’
Then he left the Vikings and began to bargain with the man in the red turban.
And so it was that soon they were dragged to their feet and had their wrists tied tightly with thin hide thongs. Then they were pushed towards the man in the helmet, who mounted his black mule and turning said, ‘Follow me without causing any disturbance. My wagon train waits at the outskirts of this town. We have a long journey to make.’
They did as they were told. On reaching the busier part of the town, they came upon a broad square, set round with many-coloured awnings.
‘Is this a market?’ asked Radbard, who thought they might buy food.
‘Yes,’ answered the Frank, smiling down on them from his saddle. ‘Look at the merchandise they sell here and be thankful.’
The wondering Vikings did as they were told and stared at the bright stalls. Under every awning sat a slave-master, with his wares: men and women and children of all races, it seemed, and all tongues. There were bright-haired children from England, standing sullenly and glowering at these foreigners who inspected them as though they had been pigs at a fair; red-haired Caledonians, who pulled away and bared their teeth whenever a prospective buyer went towards them; great laughing Africans, who went out of their way to attract a kind-faced purchaser; small slant-eyed Tartars, who squatted nonchalantly, as though they were at home, and did not seem to care what happened to them as long as they were alive; restless lithe Armenians, who held out their delicate hands to passers-by, asking to be bought and fed.
Radbard said that he thought he saw three Northmen, who had once sailed with him beyond Orkney, but the Frank said that he did not mean to buy any more Northmen that day. Three were enough, he said, and if they protested, he would sell them back into this market and have done with it.
They did not protest, but walked on with him to the outskirts of the town. And there, drawn up beside a wayside inn, were the four wagons, with their patient oxen already in the harness, waiting to go. Harald noted grimly that a dozen riders, with lances, accompanied the wagon-train, so that all thoughts of an escape while on the journey faded from his mind.
Then they were told to get into the first wagon, which they did without further protest. In it were three Bulgar boys, who wept incessantly. The Vikings tried to console them, but found that it was impossible to do so; the Bulgars seemed to enjoy their grief more than their consolation. So, since the wagon was thickly laid with straw, and since they were still fatigued from their long sea journey, the Vikings gave up trying to help their fellow-slaves, and curled up, like dogs, and fell asleep.
When they awakened, it was almost evening time and the red sun struck sadly over the harsh countryside, showing them the nature of the land they had come to – a great, undulating plain, with sharply serrated hills on the skyline; a place of small, dried-up bushes and great fissures in the reddish earth. A place where the sun shone down unmercifully in the day, and the frosts broke up the soil cruelly in the night.
The Frank brought them a dish of broken meat and a pannikin of harsh red wine each. Then they went back to sleep, lulled by the rocking of the wagon.
It was to be a long journey, down to the truly Muslim south, where the Moors had settled in their many thousands, bringing their language and their customs from the east, setting up their bulwark of Islam in the western world.
And it was to this strange world that the three exhausted Viking sea-rovers were now travelling, slowly, inevitably and sadly; three free men who were now slaves; three men who had recently been as rich as Caesars and were now poorer than the poorest goosegirl along the far northern fjords.
Harald once said this to Haro, on the journey; but Haro only turned over in the straw to find a more comfortable spot and muttered thickly, ‘The black beetle climbs up the table leg, but there is a hand waiting to crush him when he reaches the top.’
PART TWO
* * *
9. The House at Jebel Tarik
Autumn passed, and then slow-footed winter. Now, with the coming of spring and the reopening of trade in the Mediterranean, the great white house of Abu Mazur was a hive of activity, for the Master himself was coming down from his winter residence to be near his galleys and his ledgers, at Jebel Tarik.
The three Vikings stood on the high terrace that looked down on to the busy harbour. They saw the red flowers in their gilded urns, hanging heavily over the marble balustrade, teased by the light spring breezes; they saw the many broad white steps that led down and down and down, until they were as small as steps in a dream, to the broad and crowded wharf, where Abu Mazur’s heavily-laden galleys bobbed lazily on the blue tide, waiting the signal that would send them to far Cyprus, or Crete, or even to Byzantium.
Harald stood gazing at the ships, tugging impatiently at his long golden plaits; in his mind’s eye he saw himself, with his companions, in the prow of such a ship, cleaving through the blue waters to freedom, to adventure, to far Miklagard itself …
Haro came up to him and touched his arm. ‘Do not brood, shipmaster,’ he said gently. ‘The captive wolf wears out his heart walking round his cage; you are a man, not a wolf; do not wear out your heart, Harald.’
Harald turned away from his friend with a great sigh. Haro shrugged his shoulders and began to flick pebbles over the edge of the balustrade, on to the broad white steps. They bounded down and down, until they were impossible to see for their smallness in the distance. Sometimes the cluster of guards who always stood half-way up the steps glared back as the stones passed by them, looking up at the Vikings with annoyance showing on their dark fierce faces. Once a pebble struck one of these men, a great fellow wearing a gilded helmet with a tall yellow plume. He swung round and shouted at Haro, shaking his long curved sword at him. But Haro only smiled sadly and then flicked another pebble. He knew that the soldiers were not permitted to come through the upper gateway and on to the terrace. He knew also that house slaves were considered as men of some importance and must not be beaten by mere soldiers. The Frankish Captain, Clothair, had told him as much.
Clothair had been very helpful, in his rough way; he had seen that the three Vikings were given easy tasks, indoors, and had even sent a teacher to them, to give them at least a little insight into the Arabic tongue. This had helped to keep their minds occupied during the long winter days and nights.
Now at last they were to see Abu Mazur, the Great One, the richest merchant of Jebel Tarik, their master.
Radbard said, ‘I have been dreaming of my house by the fjord these last few nights, Harald. My mother will be missing me now that the sowing-time has come again. Since my father died, I alone have put the barley seeds in the ground, and my mother will expect me to do it this year too. She will not let my cousins do it; she says the seed would never grow if such young ruffians laid their hands on it.’
Harald said sadly, ‘You will not be there to do it this year, Radbard.’
Radbard thought for a moment and then said, ‘I have been thinking, Harald, that if we could get past the guards, we might hide in one of those great ships and at last sail away from here.’
Haro shook his head and said grimly, ‘Radbard, my friend, no men, not even men like us, could pass those guards down there
; and even if they could, there are more guards at the bottom step, and yet more guards on the wharf. There must always be at least a score of guards between us and the wharf; a man would need the hammer of Thor to make his way to the ships.’
Radbard said, ‘Perhaps, perhaps, Haro; then might we not go out the other way, through the house?’
Harald smiled ruefully and said, ‘That is worse; we do not know our way. There are many courtyards, and passages, and high walls. One room leads into another and then another, and that into a courtyard, and that into more rooms, until a man might go mad, trying to find his way outside. I was lost there once, myself, when the slave-master sent me with a message to one of the cooks. Luckily, Clothair found me, and brought me back to my sleeping-place, or I would have beaten my head on the wall with hopelessness.’
Haro nodded his agreement. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have seen the places you speak of, and there are guards everywhere, in niches, in towers, on the walls, in the courtyards; everywhere. It is not possible.’
Radbard turned away from them without saying any more.
Haro came up to Harald and whispered, ‘I do not like the way friend Radbard is looking, shipmaster. He means to run away, of that I am sure. And if he does that, then he is as good as a dead man.’
Harald nodded. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That thought was in my own mind about him. But what can we do?’
Haro answered with a grim little smile, ‘Once, I would not have thought twice about the problem; I should have gone with him, against all the odds in Islam, against all the Moors in creation. But now, with an arm that will not always do what I bid it do, and a heart that has been softened by the good food and drink of this place, I hesitate. Yes, I too wish to see the north again, but not from above, as a spirit in the air! When I go to the fjord once more, I wish to greet my friends as a man, like them!’
They would have gone on discussing this for a long while, for the Northmen loved argument, but just then the silver trumpet blew within the house, and then there was a great shouting and a scurrying of feet. The slave-masters were runing out on to the platform where the three friends were, urging the many slaves of the house to hurry and assemble there in neat rows, for the Master, Abu Mazur himself, was already at the main gate, and coming to inspect his new stock as the first thing he did on his arrival from his winter residence.
The Vikings kept together, standing with the others in the second row – Romans, Turks, Franks, Africans – all whispering in their excitement, in their many tongues, for this was a great occasion.
Harald saw that Clothair was waiting by the inner door, his helmet carrying a new red plume, his breastplate burnished until it sent off blinding rays in the morning sunlight. Then the trumpet blew again, but more softly this time, and Clothair suddenly fell to his knees beside the door, bowing his head until the red plume almost touched the white marble flagstones of the terrace. Abu Mazur appeared.
He was an old man, but still very upright and dignified in his bearing. His high turban, surmounted by a silver cross set within a crescent moon, made him look even taller than he was; as did his long, sky-blue robe, which reached down in straight folds to his feet. His thin, bejewelled hand rested on the silver pommel of his curved scimitar. His long, noble face, its narrow chin fringed with a wisp of grey beard, was set in gently quizzical lines, which were etched deeply in the sallow skin, giving him a curiously humorous look. He was most obviously a man of great wealth and power, yet a man of simple but refined tastes, and a man of good humour.
He paused for an instant and spoke to Clothair, bidding him get up from his knees and explain which were the new slaves who must be inspected.
Clothair rose but did not move when his master moved. Then the Vikings saw that he was waiting for someone else to pass through the pointed doorway before he followed Abu Mazur. It was a young girl of not more than sixteen years, who walked with the lazy grace of a panther, secure in the knowledge of her father’s wealth and power. A tall Nubian who stood next to Harald whispered, ‘That is Marriba, the Master’s only child. She will be a princess one day, perhaps a queen, who knows? He would lay down his life for her, my fellows.’
Haro sucked in his breath and said dreamily, ‘I think that I would lay down mine for that lady. She is the most beautiful one it has been my fortune to set eyes on.’
Harald smiled at him and whispered, ‘Wait till I tell the girls of our village by the fjord, Haro the Heartless! They will pull your plaits off in their jealousy!’
But Haro went on gazing at Marriba, sighing all the time, as though he were not a warrior but a silly little boy outside a sweetmeat booth on a fair day.
Yet Harald had to agree that Marriba was a most impressive creature; though she was young, yet her almond-shaped face had an air of dignity beyond her years. Her skin was of a light golden colour, her hair as black as the raven’s wing, her eyes great and round, fringed with dark lashes, soft as the doe’s eyes, yet capable of flashing with anger it seemed.
Harald said softly to Radbard, ‘It comes into my mind that I would like to see a girl of the north now, my friend; someone with long flaxen hair and sky-blue eyes; someone whose skin was like cream, not dark ivory.’
Radbard shrugged and said, ‘I am only interested in the seas and the forests and the fjords; I do not worry my head over skin like dark ivory, my friend.’
Then the two great ones were almost beside them, and Clothair gave Harald a warning glance, to show him that he must keep silent until Abu Mazur had passed.
But Abu Mazur did not pass so easily. Instead, when he stood opposite Harald, he stopped and looked the young Viking up and down.
‘Are these the seacocks from the north?’ he asked the Frank.
Clothair bowed and nodded. Abu Mazur stood still, fingering his grey beard with long fingers, his surprisingly dark eyes fixed on Harald’s. Harald stared back at him, wondering why this old man should concern himself to look so long into a slave’s face.
Then Abu Mazur said, ‘You are a bold young man, I can see that. Who is your father? He must be a great warrior.’
Harald stood up as straight as he could and looked above the Moor’s head.
‘My father was Sigurd of the three swords. He was the greatest warrior of his lord’s host. He was the bravest seafarer along the fjords. Now he is gone and his only son is a slave among folk who hold to other gods.’
Abu Mazur considered him for a whole minute, never taking his dark eyes from the young man’s face. Then, his voice very quiet, he said, ‘And does his only son consider that he is a warrior, too?’
Harald thought that there was the slightest taunt in the words and he replied with heat, ‘Give me a sword and I will meet any two of your guard here, on the steps, in return for the freedom of my two companions.’
Abu Mazur smiled and nodded his head. ‘I had heard that you Northfolk were great bargainers, and it seems to be true. Well, I will take your word for it that you are what you say, for I cannot allow my slaves to fight with my guards, who are all valuable and highly-trained soldiers and needed for other things. But I will do one thing for you; I will allow you to do that work in my house which best suits you. Now what task would you prefer, son of Sigurd?’
Harald’s mouth became a thin hard line. He said abruptly, ‘I am no slave to work in other men’s houses. I am a warrior and a sea-captain. I know nothing of maids’ work.’
Abu Mazur’s grave face still kept its deep lines of humour, but his dark eyes seemed to shroud at these words, and something harder seemed to come into them. He passed by Harald without saying another word. But he stopped once again before Radbard and said gently, ‘What is in your mind, Northman?’
Radbard said simply, ‘In my mind there is nothing but the sea and the planting of the barley seed, master.’
Abu Mazur answered just as simply, ‘I cannot give you the sea, but you shall plant what seed we have.’
Then he passed on along the line and they lost sight of him as he t
urned to the other slaves.
But Marriba stayed behind a moment longer, looking Harald straight in the eye with her own great eyes. She smiled, ever so little, and said softly, ‘You crow loudly, seacock; I wonder if you can peck as well?’
This made the other slaves laugh, and Harald was angry for an instant. Then he shrugged and looked away from her, afraid that he might say something which he would regret later.
Later that morning, as the three Vikings sat on the steps, trying to scratch runes on the marble with sharp pebbles, a little hunched man came to them, his head shrouded in a massive turban, his body clothed in a much-patched shirt. He spoke harshly, as one who addresses his inferiors. ‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘the Master has given me command over you. I am the gardener and you are to serve me in the garden of the great courtyard.’
The vikings halted in their scribbling and then, ignoring him, went on with their scratching. The little man jumped with rage.
‘Come, when I command,’ he said, ‘or I will see to it that you are well punished. You will get to know soon enough that I am a person of some power in this house.’
Haro was nearest to him, sprawling on the white steps and trying to draw a ship with the wind full in the sail. It was the only thing he could draw, and he always took great pains over getting every strake drawn correctly, though without much imagination. So the gardener’s words passed over Haro’s head; he did not even bother to look up.
But suddenly the little man’s foot came down on Haro’s hand as he drew, harshly and cruelly.
‘Let me show you what manner of man I am,’ shouted the gardener.
Haro stared at his bruised knuckles for a moment, then, rising slowly, reached out and took the man by the neck and the leg. He held him for a moment, then calmly leaned over the balustrade with him. The guards below looked very small and far away. Their words did not reach the top of the stairs though they talked loudly.
