New Found Land (6 page)

He reminded himself that he was opposed to whaling on principle, but the principle didn't seem to relate to the occasion. And this, after all, was no factory ship hounding a helpless victim, but a cockleshell of a boat far smaller than its quarry. If the whale proved to be a Moby Dick, and turned on them . . . He scared himself with that thought for a moment, but the frenzied atmosphere was irresistibly
contagious. The Vikings were yelling like madmen, and he found himself yelling along with them.

Two had detached themselves from the forward oars and stood on the platform beside Wulfgar, holding harpoons attached to lines. Wulfgar also had a harpoon. Simon could just glimpse him past the shoulder of the oarsman in front, grinning and exultant, his yellow hair streaming out from under his helmet in the wind. He looked like a child at a party.

The squall swept in suddenly from the starboard quarter, stinging them with darts of cold rain, and the sky darkened. It lasted only a matter of minutes before the sun came out again, but there was another following close. For perhaps a quarter of an hour, rain was intermittent, but then it turned into a steady chilling downpour. The cries of the oarsmen grew less enthusiastic, and the rowing rate eased perceptibly.

Not long after, Wulfgar called to them: “We have lost him. This expedition is ill-fated. We will set course for home.”

The air of gloom was as pronounced now as the excitement had been. The two harpooners returned despondently to their seats. Wulfgar, though, was not downcast.

“Our luck will change,” he cried. “After the winter feast, we shall take whales by the dozen. Odin will provide for his children. At the winter feast, the eagles will spread their wings, and then we shall live prosperously on Odin's bounty. Now, home!”

•  •  •

That night in the hut, Bos grumbled about the premature ending of the whale hunt. The helmsman in his ship had claimed to have the whale still in view when the chase was called off.

Curtius said: “The rain dampened their spirits. In my ship they were complaining of it, like children. In the imperial Roman army we marched for many long days through rain far heavier, and slaughtered barbarians at the march's end.”

“I was surprised they gave up so easily,” Simon said, “when they're short of oil and running short of food.”

“They talk of their winter feast,” Bos said, “when eagles spread their wings. I have seen no eagles here. I said that to them, and they laughed.”

“They are children,” Curtius insisted. “I like them well enough, but they are children. They laugh for no reason.”

Brad said: “It is puzzling. Wulfgar seems very
confident Odin is going to take care of them, but I don't see how he expects it to happen.”

Bos shook his head. “They can expect nothing from pagan gods.”

Curtius said: “I pay my due respects to the gods, as a wise man should, but I would never wait on their aid. The gods, in any case, help those best who help themselves.”

“It's not long now to the winter feast,” Simon said. “A couple of weeks. It's probably just a morale booster: something to keep them going.”

“Children . . .” said Curtius.

•  •  •

There was an increasing mood of anticipation in the village, something like that which Simon remembered from Christmases when he was little. The women spent a good deal of time preparing for the feast. They were very cheerful, with one exception. That was Lundiga, who seemed preoccupied and withdrawn.

Brad commented on it. “She's unhappy about something.”

“Do you think so?”

Simon had been hoping the preoccupation might be connected with him. She no longer greeted his
compliments with amused smiles, but with worried looks. It might represent progress. He felt there had been a change in her attitude altogether. It would be easier if he could talk to her without having Brad along, but she remained adamant about that.

Brad said: “I'm sure so.”

They were on their way to join her. There had been a good fall of snow, and she had said she would take them to a tobogganing slope outside the village.

She was waiting with the toboggan at her parents' hut, and walked quietly beside them as Simon carried it out of the village. She really was very quiet this morning, barely responding to his attempts to strike up conversation; yet he did not feel the silence was a hostile one. She was looking very beautiful, her cheeks pinker than ever in the crisp air.

She led them to a ridge half a mile from the village, overlooking a saucer-shaped hollow. The toboggan was meant for two but would take three. They made several runs, producing a progressively faster track as the snow compacted.

Suddenly Lundiga said she would not go on the next run, and before Brad could say anything, Simon said he would skip it, too. Brad shrugged and got
down on the sled, immediately launching himself down the slope. He wound up with a fancy twist at the bottom, scattering a cloud of snow. He started back up with the sled.

Simon said: “You're looking prettier than ever today, Lundiga.”

It wasn't a particularly stylish compliment, but his command of Latin did not extend to stylishness, and if it had, Lundiga, speaking only the barbarous Latin of the Vikings, probably wouldn't have appreciated it. He did his best to improve things by gazing earnestly into her eyes, and was disconcerted to find them brimming with tears. He was even more taken aback when she burst into loud sobs. He put a comforting arm round her, and she did not shake it off.

Brad, hauling the toboggan up the last bit of slope, said accusingly: “What have you been doing to her?”

“Nothing.”

Brad's look was sceptical.

“No, really, nothing!”

Lundiga detached herself but did not move away. Surveying them through tears, she said: “You must go.”

“Go?” Simon stared at her. “Go where?”

“Away from here. From the island.”

“But why?”

Simon's acquaintance with the opposite sex was a limited one, but it had taught him that avowals need not always be taken at face value. Go away might mean come closer. He took her hand, and said: “I'm not going anywhere.”

She looked at him, then turned to Brad.

“You asked me once about how it was my people came here, and I said I did not know. That was not true, Bradus.”

He said: “I wondered at the time. There's always some story or legend, even if it's not very accurate.”

“It was because of you Romans. A long time ago—more than thirty generations.”

She paused. “My people were part of the empire. We spoke the language of the empire, obeyed the emperor's commands. But in the northern mountains there were those of our race who had not submitted to the Romans. They had many children and not enough food. They came south, and called on my people to rise against the Romans. Our ancestors joined with them, and together they won a great
battle against the Roman army. But the emperor had other armies. In the next battle, our ancestors were defeated, with great slaughter.”

She paused again, and Brad said to Simon in English: “More than thirty generations. That would make it about the time the Viking expeditions started in our world. In this one, the Danes had been Romanized, and Rome itself was still powerful. So if the Norwegians and Swedes moved south, and called on the Romanized Danes to join them . . . It makes sense.”

Lundiga said: “I do not understand your words.”

In Latin, Brad said: “It doesn't matter. What happened—after your people's army was defeated?”

“Roman soldiers entered our land, pursuing those who had fled. They not only killed men, but tortured and murdered women and children. They burned towns and villages, the people along with the houses.”

“Very Roman,” Brad commented. “They did the same after Boudicca's revolt. They were always more cruel towards those who had been Romanized. In their eyes it was a special kind of treachery to revolt against Roman rule.”

“In one town,” Lundiga said, “hearing what the Romans had done in other places, the people took their longships and set sail. There were stories of a land called Thule that lay far off in the great ocean, beyond Britain. They did not know if the stories were true, but chose the perils of the sea rather than the merciless ferocity of the Romans. Four longships sailed, and three were lost. The fourth found safe landing here.

“For many generations my people prospered on this island, and were happy. In the last hundred years it has been harder. We have less of everything: ships, huts, food. And children. The present is dark, the future darker still.”

Simon said: “But your people seem cheerful enough. And they talk of good times to come. They say Odin is going to help them, after the winter feast.”

She began to cry again.

In a strange, wary voice, Brad said: “Just what is this stuff about Odin, and the winter feast, and the eagles?”

“We have a legend, passed down from the early days. It spoke of hard times to come, very hard, and
said they would not pass until Romans came to the island.”

“Well,” Simon said, “that's all right, isn't it? Here we are.”

She stared miserably at them. “The legend said the Romans would come—to be a sacrifice to Odin at the winter feast. After that, Odin will bring good times again.”

Simon could not believe what he was hearing. He said: “But the flying eagles . . .”

“I remember now,” Brad said. “It's something that's been at the back of my mind, but I didn't make the connection. A very old form of Scandinavian ritual killing. The eagles don't fly: they simply spread their wings. What that means, precisely, is that someone cuts the victims' chests open, and slowly bends the ribs outwards till they look like wings. It was called the bloody eagle.”

He looked at Lundiga.

“And we are to be the eagles?”

B
OS SWORE, AND WENT ON
swearing for a long time.

Curtius was incredulous. He demanded: “Are you certain of this?”

“Sure enough,” Brad said.

“But what reason would the girl have for telling you? By doing so, she betrays her people.”

Bos said impatiently: “There is no problem there. Have you not seen young Simonus here making eyes at her? The Sabine women preferred the Roman husbands who had snatched them to the fathers who had nurtured them. And I think what she said is true.
They laughed when I asked about the eagles, and there was something about that laugh I now remember. When I was a child and the Romans took my village, my mother pleaded for my father's life. The centurion laughed like that, before he ran him through.”

Curtius's swarthy face had been darkening as Bos spoke. He said: “Did I call them children? They are treacherous curs. Let us go at once and kill them.”

“Four of us,” Simon said, “against roughly a hundred? I don't like the odds.”

“For all their horned helmets and axes,” Curtius said contemptuously, “they are more women than warriors. Indeed, I believe their women might fight better.”

Brad said: “You could be right about that. Which would make the odds around two hundred to four. Curtius, we have to be sensible. We've had the good luck to be warned in advance. We can take advantage of that.”

“Wait till tonight, then,” Bos suggested. “They will get drunk in the hall, as they always do. That is the time to fall on them and hack them to pieces.”

Curtius nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps I can wait till tonight.”

Simon said: “Are you both mad? They'd probably
fight better for being drunk. And there are the women, as Brad said. Killing them isn't important, anyway. Getting clear of the island is.”

Curtius looked obstinate, but Bos asked: “What do you say we should do?”

“The winter feast,” Brad said, “takes place at the full moon. The moon's half full now, so we have time to make preparations. Our best plan obviously is to escape by night in one of the longships. There are things we'll need, like food and water for the voyage. We must choose the right moment.”

“How soon?” Bos asked.

“Not right now, certainly. We want a clear night.”

The weather had been dull for days, with a sharp east wind and low cloud. Curtius said: “What if there is no clear night before the feast?”

“Then we'll have to take a chance on getting away in the dark. But it'll be a lot easier with a moon.”

“And there's the question,” Simon put in, “of when Lundiga can get away.”

Curtius scowled at him. “We do not take the girl.”

Simon said: “Without her warning us we'd be heading for a nasty death. Of course she's coming.”

“She is one of them,” Curtius said, “and therefore not to be trusted.”

Bos said: “What you say is right, Simonus. But she will be better off here, with her own people.”

“Lundiga betrayed her people when she warned us,” Brad said, “as Curtius pointed out. If we disappear, they'll be pretty sure it's because we found out what they had planned. And since she's been with Simonus and me so much they're bound to suspect her of telling us. We have to take her.”

Curtius shook his head. “I say leave her.”

Bos looked troubled. “I like the girl. And she has done us a favour beyond price. If you think she would be in danger . . .”

“Right,” Simon said. “That's three to one. Lundiga comes with us.”

Curtius said in disgust: “I would still rather go out there now and kill them all.”

•  •  •

They spoke to Lundiga next morning. Simon said: “We'll let you know when we've fixed the time for going. The safest way will be for you to slip away and join up with us on the quayside.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, no.”

“What do you mean—no?”

“I told you because I could not bear that you should be killed. But I could not go away with you. That is not proper.”