He was deep in mournful reverie when Wayland said his name. He turned, smiling. ‘I was miles away. Has Vallon called a council? Am I holding things up?’
‘It’s Syth. She’s sick.’
‘Oh, no! Why didn’t you say?’
‘She didn’t want to bother you. She only told me this morning. She’s been sick for three days.’
‘In what way sick?’
‘Throwing up. Three of the falcons are showing signs of sickness, too.’
‘I’ll tend to her straight away.’
Syth watched him with a very guarded expression when he approached. She didn’t look her usual bright self. There were bruises under her eyes and her hair was brittle and lifeless. He took her pulse, listened to her breathing, felt her brow. Nothing untoward there.
‘Describe your symptoms.’
She made a gargoyle face and uttered a retching sound.
‘Vomiting?’ said Hero. ‘After eating?’
‘At the thought of eating. Sometimes a smell makes me throw up.’
‘You don’t have a fever. Perhaps it’s something you ate.’
Caitlin walked over. ‘What’s wrong with the maid?’
‘She’s ill. Vomiting.’
Caitlin put her arms around Syth. ‘What time of day does the sickness come?’
‘It’s worst in the morning.’
Caitlin looked up at the men. ‘Leave us alone.’
Hero watched Wayland pacing and rubbing his mouth. ‘She’ll be fine. All she needs is rest.’
‘Where’s Syth going to find rest? Ahead of us is the Black Sea and behind us there are two hundred miles of steppe infested by Cumans.’
‘Blockheads.’
Hero turned. Caitlin stood with her hands on her hips, smiling.
‘I can understand why Wayland didn’t recognise Syth’s condition, but as for you …’
Hero reddened. ‘I admit my medical knowledge isn’t perfect.’
‘You don’t have to be a physician to know what’s troubling Syth. The girl isn’t ill. She’s pregnant.’
Vallon held counsel over their midday meal. ‘I didn’t want to discuss our predicament while Richard was alive. We’re in a mess. The question is, how do we get out of it?’
‘We have to follow the galley,’ said Drogo. ‘Head west, keeping to the coast. The Russians don’t sail directly to Constantinople. They stop at trading posts along the way.’
‘Is that your advice?’ Vallon asked Hero.
‘I’m not sure. The nearest haven is at the mouth of the Danube. It might take a week to reach it and we’d have to land each night. The nomads occupy the coast and sooner or later we’ll run into them. It might be safer to go east. Igor told me there’s a Greek colony on the Krym peninsula.’
‘How far?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How much food do we have?’
‘Enough for four or five days.’
‘Wayland? Any thoughts?’
The falconer looked at Syth before answering. ‘Have we given up our plan to reach Anatolia?’
‘Forget Anatolia. Our survival is the only thing that matters.’
Wayland looked at Syth again. ‘I don’t know what direction to take.’
Vallon stroked his lips.
‘East or West,’ said Drogo. ‘Which is it to be?’
‘Neither.’ Vallon pointed out to sea, at the boat carrying Richard’s corpse. ‘We’ll follow the course set by your brother.’
‘What! We won’t cross the sea in our little boat.’
‘The Greeks have colonies throughout the Black Sea. That means maritime traffic. We’ll sail south until we reach a shipping lane and wait for a vessel to pick us up.’ Vallon looked around. ‘Anyone got a better idea?’ He slapped his knees. ‘That’s settled then.’
On the eve of departure, the three sick falcons had taken a turn for the worse. Two of them wouldn’t eat. The other took a small crop and cast up its meal undigested, standing flat-footed with its plumage loose and its eyes narrowed to ovals. When Wayland checked in the
morning, the falcons lay stiff in their cages with their feet clenched and lice scurrying on their feathers.
They left under a cold and overcast sky. Where the colour of the water changed from muddy yellow to grey they came upon Richard’s funeral boat. Four vultures perched on the gunwales and gulls and kites hovered above the shrouded corpse. The travellers crossed themselves and raised the sail and headed into the open sea.
By nightfall they were out of sight of land and hadn’t seen a single ship. In the dark the wind strengthened and waves broke over the boat, making it necessary to bail. A sleepless night gave way to another cold grey day. They sailed on, not sure what course they were following. Towards evening Wayland thought he saw a sail miles to starboard. No one else could see it and soon darkness fell.
Morning on the third day broke clear and sunny, the sea still choppy, still empty. The wind was carrying them west and they looked at each other with bloodshot eyes, aware that they were too far from land to turn back.
Before noon Wayland spotted a sail approaching from the east. They mended their course to intercept it. Hero recognised the ship as a Venetian merchantman. It passed close enough for the frantically waving company to see its crew pointing at them. It sailed on without altering direction, carrying the curses of the castaways.
Not long after it sank from sight another ship appeared, also westward bound. This vessel was much larger, running under two lateen sales.
‘It’s a
dromon
,’ said Hero. ‘A Byzantine war galley. Look at the two banks of oar ports. She must be carrying three hundred men.’
Vallon studied it. ‘Lower the sail. Don’t signal.’
Drogo sprang from his seat. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Calm yourself. There’s only one reason why they’d pick us up. I’ve no wish to work out my days as a galley slave.’
They watched the galley glide past. ‘Don’t be downhearted,’ said Vallon. ‘We’ve seen two ships already. We’re in the right place.’
No more ships appeared that day or the next morning. In the afternoon Wayland opened the cages to feed the two surviving falcons. The white haggard still had a healthy appetite and alert eyes. The eyas tiercel crouched in the corner of its cage. When Wayland placed it on his fist, it stood unsteadily and paid no attention to the food. He put it back.
He didn’t tell the company about its imminent death. They sat slumped in their own private miseries, their hair stiff with brine, faces masked by salt, crusts of dried vomit at the corners of their mouths.
The sun was dipping into the sea when Wayland’s last sweep of the horizons registered another sail. A tiny silhouette on the reddening sky. Everyone watched it in silence, not daring to put hopes into words. It grew larger.
‘Heading our way,’ said Wayland.
‘East,’ said Drogo. ‘The wrong direction.’
‘There isn’t a wrong direction,’ Vallon said.
The ship was hugging the wind, making slow progress. The evening star was shining when its hull cleared the horizon.
Drogo stopped waving. ‘It’s too dark. They can’t see us.’
‘Light a torch,’ said Vallon.
The ship was lost in darkness by the time they kindled the damp tow into flame. Wayland held it above his head.
‘They won’t stop for a torch,’ Drogo said.
‘Shout,’ Vallon said.
They waved the torch and called into the darkness until their voices grew hoarse.
Hero pointed. ‘Over there!’
A spark shone somewhere to port. The light grew and another joined it. Then a third. The torches drew closer until at last Hero could see by their light the faces of the men who held them. He could make out the ship’s profile. An oddly shaped vessel with a very high stem, broad in the beam and broadest aft. One of the torch-bearers stood on the foredeck and when the wind fanned his flame, Hero glimpsed an eye painted on the bow and a name in Greek.
Planetes –
‘
The Wanderer
’.
‘Who are you?’ a voice called. ‘What happened?’
‘Shipwrecked merchants,’ Hero shouted. ‘We were on our way from Kiev to Constantinople when our ship sank. We’ve been adrift for five days and our food and water are almost gone. There are women with us. For love of the Queen of Heaven, save us.’
The torches clumped together. From the mariners’ gestures, it was clear that some of them were for leaving the castaways adrift.
‘Let’s take a closer look at you,’ the voice called.
Four rough-looking men and a boy peered down from the deck as
they came alongside. ‘Who are those two?’ the captain demanded, pointing at Vallon and Drogo.
‘Soldiers on their way to join the Varangian Guard.’
‘I’m not taking armed men on my ship. Hand over their weapons. You don’t look like pirates, but you don’t look like honest merchants either.’
When they surrendered their arms, the mariners pulled them aboard and led them forward past a hold containing a score of horses tethered in stalls. The ship was a battered tramp stinking of bilge-water and old cargoes of oil and fish. Her skipper was as ugly as sin, with an enormous hooked nose and hair like a bunch of dead serpents dangling from his bald pate. Bardas, he was called. He didn’t know what to make of his passengers, but the sight of Caitlin holding Syth and stroking her hair seemed to stir in him some spirit of gruff compassion.
‘Don’t move from the bow. I’ll bring you food as soon as I can.’
The crew retired to a sunken and roofed galley in the stern. In a little while the captain and two of his men returned with water and a stew of beans and some bread. Hero asked him where he was bound. They were five days out of Varna, Bardas said, carrying horses to the Greek garrison at Cherson on the Krym peninsula, a day’s sail to the east.
‘Will we find a ship to take us to Constantinople?’
Bardas shook his head. ‘Not this side of Christmas. A few days before we sailed, a freighter from Trebizond arrived at the capital with its crew dying of plague. The authorities are placing all vessels from the east in a month’s isolation at the mouth of the Bosporus. Nobody’s voyaging to Constantinople unless they have to.’
Vallon laughed when Hero relayed the news. ‘So the Russians did us a favour by deserting. Let’s see if we can turn it to further advantage.’ He stared towards the firelit galley. ‘You said we had about twenty pounds of silver left.’
‘More like fifteen.’
‘Drogo, the horses you bought in Novgorod cost about two pounds each.’
‘I was cheated. They weren’t worth half that.’
Vallon stroked his mouth. ‘You know what? We might reach our destination after all.’
‘You mean, go on into Anatolia?’ Hero said. ‘There’s no longer any point. The ransom hawks are dead.’
‘It’s not about the ransom. If we sail to Cherson, we could be stuck there for months. You’ve seen how the natives fleece us. By the time we reach Constantinople, we’ll be lucky if we still have shirts on our backs. On the other hand … ’ Vallon paused. ‘We could reach the Emir Suleyman’s camp within a fortnight if we persuaded Bardas to land us on the Anatolian coast.’ Vallon looked around. ‘I won’t force anyone to join me against their will. Anyone who wants to go to Cherson, say so.’
Nobody spoke for some time. They were all weak and demoralised. At last Hero put up a hand. ‘I’ll come with you. I know it won’t achieve anything except the satisfaction of reaching our goal. I’ll do it for Richard’s sake.’
Wayland looked at Syth. ‘It will be a hard journey. We have to consider the child.’
‘Wayland, I’m not going to give birth in the next month. If you want to go, just say so.’
‘Are you sure?’
Syth rolled her eyes at Vallon. ‘We’re coming.’
‘So am I,’ said Caitlin.
Drogo’s face set. ‘Do I have a say?’
‘No, you stay on the ship. I’ll leave you with enough silver to keep body and soul together.’
With the die cast, Hero grew animated. ‘How are we going to persuade Bardas to take us to Anatolia?’
‘Wait for an opportunity to catch him on his own. Tell him I want to discuss a business proposition in private.’
Wayland looked dubious. ‘They have our weapons. Once they know we’re sitting on a pot of silver, what’s to stop them cutting our throats?’
It must have been close to midnight when Hero got a chance to take the captain aside. The only other crewman on deck was the helmsman. Bardas eyed Hero suspiciously. ‘I told you not to go wandering over my ship.’
‘Can I have a word?’ Hero gestured towards the helmsman. ‘Not here.’
He led the way amidships, leaned on the gunwale and looked across the sea.
Bardas kept his distance. ‘Well?’
‘Come closer. I have something for you – a token of Lord Vallon’s gratitude.’
Bardas approached. Hero slipped him a purse. ‘It’s English silver.’
Bardas palmed the purse under his tunic without looking at it. ‘What’s he want?’
‘A business matter. He’ll tell you himself.’
‘What sort of business?’
Hero put a finger to his lips.
One of the crewmen had poked his head out. ‘Hey, Captain. We’re ready to eat.’
‘Later,’ said Bardas. He kept his eyes on Hero. ‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’
‘It has to be tonight. Our situation is urgent. Help us and Vallon will reward you well.’
Bardas breathed heavily. ‘I’m not walking into some hole-in-the-corner trickery. If your master wants to talk business, I’ll bring my crew with me. I don’t hide anything from them. They’re all kin.’
‘By all means invite them along. The problem is, that would mean letting them know how much money is involved.’
Bardas glanced towards the galley. ‘Fetch the Frank here.’
‘He’d rather discuss matters in the bow. Where the money is kept.’
Bardas whipped a knife out from somewhere and held it against Hero’s throat. With his other hand he gripped Hero’s arm and pushed him towards the bow. ‘This had better be genuine.’
Vallon pretended not to see the knife. He rose to greet the captain and invited him to sit. Bardas shoved Hero forward and remained standing. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Ask him about the horses,’ said Vallon.
Hero nodded towards the hold. ‘The horses. Are they broken?’
‘That’s what it says on the bill of lading.’
‘Do you have saddles and tack for them?’
‘What’s it to you?’