As dusk fell, the taverns and slop-houses began to fill up. That first night he had trawled a few drinking shops. He must have started half a hundred conversations. It was thirsty work, that much talk, especially in a language not his own. But by night’s end, all for nothing. Norsk and Danes and Sveärs were rare beasts in this city, that was if anyone had heard of them at all.

Eventually the taverns closed and the brothels grew more lively. Maybe it was the drink. . . no, it was the drink, that got him to thinking about the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s touch. The best he could remember, his wife was half a year cold in the ground. And the boy. Gods, was it that long? He had buried them both himself. Still could hear her screams as she tried to push out the little mite stuck inside her. He shook away the memory before his thoughts became too maudlin and distracted himself with the lithe, dusky-skinned creature flashing him a beckoning eye. Well, my lad, he reasoned, it’s the queen’s coin and she wouldn’t want you to sleep on the street, would she. . .?

The next day his search had continued and proved as fruitless as the night before. Entering the tavern, Einar wished he could believe his luck was about to change. He sighed. Hel, at least it was time for another drink.

‘A jug of your finest, friend,’ he said amiably to the owner. One of the first phrases Demetrios had taught him. A man had to survive, after all. The owner didn’t smile back, just picked up a large pitcher and poured out some wine into a smaller jug. Einar licked his lips and pushed two copper coins across the tiles. ‘One cup will do.’ The man pushed a clay beaker at him, then went back to wiping down his counter.

Einar threw one cup down and had refilled another almost before the sour taste hit the back of his throat. The tavern’s finest was very far from fine. Still, Einar had grown accustomed to disappointment on that score. ‘So, friend. Who are all these folks?’ He jerked his head at the gabbling crowd. The owner said nothing. ‘What are they? Soldiers, whores?’ Again the man said nothing. Instead a deep, rumbling laugh sounded further along the counter.

‘You won’t get much talk out of him, friend.’ The speaker was a bulky fellow, curly black hair, sharp little beard, bulging shoulders, a uniform of sorts. ‘Show him.’ This, to the tavern-keeper. The man obliged, opening his mouth and waggling the stump of his tongue at Einar.

‘Hel’s breath,’ Einar hissed.

The soldier laughed. ‘That’s what you get for badmouthing your commanding officer.’

‘Someone couldn’t take a joke then?’