Tim Severin - The Emperor's Elefant

‘Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t know exactly where or when we are going,’ I said firmly. Osric’s caution was oppressive.

He treated me to a sceptical glance. ‘Offa’s no fool. He’ll work that out for himself.’

His remark hit home. Carolus’s mews master had already told me that the source for white gyrfalcons was the market in Kaupang, on the furthest border of the kingdom of the Danes.

My friend grimaced as he tried to stretch his crooked leg. ‘Just how far north is this Kaupang?’

‘A month’s travel. The market is temporary, just a few weeks every summer. Traders come to it from all over the Northlands.’

‘And just as I was hoping to enjoy a few weeks of summer warmth,’ Osric grumbled.

‘Everything is being arranged by the chancery and we should be back before the summer’s over,’ I assured him. ‘There’ll be an armed escort from here to Dorestad on the Rhine, a ship from there direct to Kaupang where we purchase the white bears and falcons, then back home.’

Osric shook his head in disbelief. ‘And a moment ago you said that we would conceal the timing of our journey. Not with an escort of Frankish troopers clattering along with us, we won’t.’

‘Then I’ll have the size of escort reduced to the bare minimum. Just enough to make sure we arrive in Dorestad without being robbed. We’ll be carrying a small fortune in silver coin. Carolus is providing a massive budget.’

‘Sufficient to buy a unicorn?’ My friend was gently mocking.

‘We’ll do our best to find one, and if we fail, the king will have to accept our excuses.’

Osric sighed. ‘That part of our mission is probably a fool’s errand. But I can see that you’ve already made up your mind about Walo coming with us.’

I got to my feet. ‘I must go and check how soon the chancery can have our escort and money ready for us.’ As I made my way across the royal precinct, I wondered if I should have been more honest with Osric. The Oneirokritikon had offered an alternative explanation for my dream. According to Artimedorus, a dream of bees was only a good omen for farmers. For everyone else, to dream about bees was highly dangerous. Their humming signified confusion, and their stings were symbols for wounds and hurt. If the bees settled on the dreamer’s head, it foretold his death.

*

We rode out from Aachen on the first day of June when the faint glow of dawn was barely visible in the sky. I hoped our small party would be unremarkable among the early travellers already taking the rutted highway leading out of town. Osric and I wore the sober, practical clothes that marked us as smalltime merchants. Walo was dressed as our servant. I had removed my eye patch to make myself less noticeable and would replace it only when it was full daylight. Our escort of two burly troopers had been persuaded to leave behind the helmets and armoured coats that identified them as members of the royal guard. Each man led two pack ponies, his sword hidden among their straw-lined panniers stuffed with the bottles of Rhenish wine that purported to be our trade goods. Our real wealth was in the leather saddlebags slung from the saddle of my horse and Osric’s: shiny new silver deniers from the king’s mint at Aachen. Each coin was the size of my fingernail and the moneyers had stamped them with Carolus’s monogram on one side, and the Christian cross on the other. There were three thousand of them, a dazzling prize for any lucky thief.

As the morning wore on, I was alarmed to see Walo attracting attention. He stared rudely at the people coming towards us along the road, gazing at them with open curiosity. Some scowled at him in return. Others met his stare and, noting his moon face, looked away and hurried their steps. Ignoring their reaction, he swivelled right round in the saddle to turn and watch their backs long after they had passed.

‘Walo sticks in people’s memories,’ Osric muttered as he rode up alongside me. ‘Let’s hope that Offa’s spies don’t hear that you are travelling with Vulfard’s son. We’ll be easy to track.’

‘There’s not much I can do about it,’ I admitted.

‘Does Walo know where we are going and why?’

‘I got him in one of his better moments, and told him that the king was sending us to obtain white bears, hawks and a unicorn. But I didn’t say where we were going.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He accepted everything I said as perfectly normal. He only asked if a unicorn sheds its horn every year.’

‘Why on earth would he want to know that?’

‘He told me in all seriousness that if the unicorn loses its horn each year, then it is a sort of deer. If not, then it is more like a wisent.’

Osric raised an eyebrow. ‘For all his strangeness, he knows a lot about the animals. Let’s hope he doesn’t blurt out the reason for our journey to some stranger along our route.’

‘He shies away from strangers. Maybe he doesn’t trust them,’ I reassured Osric. ‘But I’ll keep a close watch on him.’

We left the town and emerged into gently rolling countryside. The rich soil was intensively cultivated, and here Walo gawked at the prosperous brick-built farms with their tiled stables and cattle byres, the barns, pigeon lofts and orchards. I guessed that his previous life under his father’s care had been almost entirely spent in the great tracts of untamed forest that the king reserved for hunting. Edging my horse closer to Walo I took it on myself to try to explain what was happening on the land. Here a flock of sheep was penned next to an open-sided shed. Two men were shearing while their comrades were carrying away the fleeces to drop them into rinsing baths. A little further on I described why an ox team was ploughing the ground so late in the season. It was the new agricultural system recommended by the king’s advisors. The field had been left fallow for the previous year. When we came to a watermill, the turning paddles astonished him and I doubted he understood my long-winded description of their function. But I needed to hold his attention while, off to one side, Osric discreetly bartered with the miller for a bag of oats for our horses.

By noon, the day had turned very warm and it was time to break our journey. Passing a large, ramshackle farm, I spotted a water trough in one corner of the farmyard. I turned aside and led our little pack train into the yard to ask permission to water our animals. Two ill-tempered guard dogs promptly burst from their kennel, barking and snarling. They were large, vicious curs. We pulled up immediately, unable to dismount. Our horses skittered nervously, edging sideways and back. The dogs circled, hackles raised, occasionally rushing in to snap at their heels. One dog, the largest and boldest, leapt up in an attempt to sink its teeth into a guardsman’s leg. He kicked out at the brute with an oath and I feared that he would reach for his hidden sword. After a little while, when no one appeared from the farmhouse to call off the beasts, I pulled my horse’s head around and prepared to lead our party away.

At that moment, Walo, who had not spoken all morning, suddenly broke his silence. I did not make out the exact words but he called out some sort of command. At the same time he threw a leg across his saddle and slid down from his horse, leaving the reins dangling. He then strode straight towards the angry dogs. I was sure they would rush him and attack, but he called out again and they backed away. He kept walking forward, both hands held out palms down, and his voice dropped to a more normal tone. As he spoke, the frenzied barking subsided to low, frustrated growls. Walo moved even closer, and the dogs’ hackles sank down. Finally, when Walo was standing right over them, he gestured at them to return to where they had come from. Silently the brutes trotted off to the side of the farmyard, heads low and their tails drooping.