The Whale Road. Robert Low

All the treacherous walkways had people – so many people, in streets that stank of cooking and spilled ale and shite. They say, at that time, a thousand people lived in Birka. I had never seen a hundred people in one place at one time.

      I scarcely realised we were climbing until the pulsing crowd of humanity slackened, then disappeared, and we emerged from the shadowed eaves of quieter houses almost under the stockade and main gates of the Borg.

      Inside, unadorned and massive, the dark masonry of the fortress loomed, sparked with golden glow here and there. A small, iron-ringed door and a flight of steps took us into a flagged courtyard, on the other side of which some more steps spiralled wearily to yet another door.

      Through this I stumbled, following the others, drunk on the sheer sensation of it all, spilling into a great golden glow of light from torches on sconces, which made the guide’s feeble lantern look as if it had gone out.

      The place was hung with rich tapestries crusted with gold threads and embroidered with scenes that, in the flickering light, looked as if they were coming alive. I didn’t understand any of them – save a hunting scene – but several had those people with round hats of gold, so I thought they must be to do with the White Christ.

      The very floor, of polished wood, seemed to gleam and I felt my boots on it were an affront.

      A new figure appeared, nodded to the guide and smiled affably at Einar, quizzically at me and, lastly, offered a fixed politeness to Illugi Godi.

      He wore a brown robe tied with a clean, pale rope and soft, slippers. His face was sharp, smooth, clean-shaven, his eyes black and his brown hair cut the same length all round. The torchlight bounced off his bald scalp – no, not bald, I realised suddenly. Shaved and, by the fuzz on it, in need of renewing.

      ‘Martin monk,’ acknowledged Einar with a nod. ‘Brondolf has news, then?’

      ‘Our master has something to impart, yes,’ answered Martin smoothly, then turned to Illugi Godi. ‘Still a heathen, I see, Master Illugi? I had hoped Our Lord would see fit to deliver another miracle as we approach Easter.’

      ‘Another miracle?’ responded Illugi. ‘Has there been one recently, then?’

      ‘Indeed,’ answered Martin, almost joyously. ‘My own bishop, Poppo, has convinced Harald Bluetooth of the power of God and Christ, who died for our sins. He wore a redhot iron glove to prove it. So it is that Bluetooth is now to be gathered into the flock of God and given His mercy.’

      ‘Where is Brondolf?’ Einar demanded.

      ‘On his way,’ replied Martin easily. ‘He has asked that I offer you his hospitality – please come to the fire. And who is this?’

      Einar jerked a thumb at me and shrugged. ‘Orm, son of my shipmaster, Rurik. He has never been anywhere, or seen anything, so I thought to bring him, for the learning in it.’

      ‘Indeed,’ mused Martin. ‘I see you have seen the Light and been gathered into God’s grace.’

      Puzzled, I saw him glance at the cross on my chest and was appalled that he should think me a Christ-follower. ‘I had it from a man I killed,’ I blurted without thinking. Einar chuckled. Martin, unsure whether I had just been witty or stupid, led the way to a table with benches and we sat.

      It was here, for the first time, that I found food could be remarkably different. Women came, soft-slippered so that they scarcely made more than a whispering sound, and served up fillets of fish stuffed with anchovies and capers, shellfish which we hooked out with silver picks, cutlets of lamb, bloody-rare, ripe with wild garlic and melting in my mouth, all washed down with wine, which I had never tasted until now.

      Food. Until Birka, all food was mud-coloured – brown, or yellow or red – and tasted of fish, even the meat, since we fed livestock on fish leavings. I could hardly breathe for the sight and smell of that table.

      And all the while Martin chattered about the storms and the news of Stord and how unfortunate it was that Hakon could not be gathered into the bosom of Christ as was proper, but no doubt God would overlook the heathen propensities of his followers and gather him anyway.

      Which prompted a sharp response from Illugi Godi and then they were off into argument, leaving Einar and me behind. I listened with half an ear as Illugi tried to explain that the Vanir were not the same as the Aesir, were older gods and some, like Ull, were not much worshipped.

      Einar. I caught him looking at me as I looked at him, and saw that his expensive silver cup was scarcely touched. Then I saw myself as he saw me, cheeks bulging with lamb, gravy on my chin, wild with the sheer, unbelievable sensuality of the whole affair.

      I swallowed, sobered. Einar grinned and I followed his gaze to the arguing pair.

      Illugi was in heated debate about the tale of Bishop Poppo and the wearing of the red-hot glove and Martin was smiling and answering him blandly.

      Suddenly, as if a veil was whipped away, I saw, as I knew Einar did – had done since we arrived – that Martin was stalling. The wine, the food – even the argument – were all a feint, as when a man looks for an opening under a shield.