The menfolk were like their women – small, slight, pale and red-haired, dressed in homespun hose and ill-fitting tunics. But the traders looked very different. They had swarthy faces, hair as black as pitch, and stocky limbs. Their tunics were looser and fell lower, almost like the summer-skirts of some womenfolk back north. One man in particular caught Erlan’s attention. He had a cropped beard and wore a dark green tunic, with an expensive-looking cloak slung over one shoulder. A pair of brooches glistered in the sun.

Gold.

The first Erlan had seen since Dunsgard.

‘The one in green,’ he murmured to Leikr. ‘That’s our man.’

They waited for him to be ferried ashore. The villagers and other crew members were already unloading their goods and hauling them to firmer ground. The man in green hopped into the shallows.

‘Stay close,’ Erlan muttered, limping a few strides towards the beach. ‘Hey, friend!’ he called.

Abruptly, everyone stopped what they were doing. A few hands went to knife-hilts. Erlan opened his palms to show he meant no trouble. But he kept walking.

One of the traders stepped in front of the captain to block Erlan’s path, but his master shooed him out of the way.

Erlan stopped a few yards short and pointed at the ship. ‘Your boat.’ He patted his chest, then jerked a thumb at Leikr and the dog. ‘We need passage. To the south.’ He pointed that way.

The captain muttered something to the man nearest him. They both chuckled – thin, nasal sounds, not like the belly laughter of a Dane or the throaty hoots of a Sveär. Erlan waited till they’d laughed themselves out. ‘Passage,’ he repeated.

‘Sarmatoi?’ The captain pointed at Erlan. ‘Esse. Sarmatoi?’

He shook his head. Gods, this could be painful. But at least the man was talking. The captain pointed at the villagers. ‘Tous – Skythei,’ then at Erlan and Leikr. ‘Allá esse – Gothei?’

Erlan scratched his beard.

‘I think he’s asking where we’re from,’ offered Leikr.

‘Yep – I got that,’ said Erlan irritably, nevertheless unsure how to answer. Gothei sounded a bit like Gotar, a tribe who lived south of the Sveär. After the distance they had travelled, that seemed close enough. ‘Aye. Gotar,’ he nodded.

‘Ha! Gothei.’ The captain grinned, then pointed at Wrathling hanging from Erlan’s belt. ‘Svertha venn.’

Almost the same word in the Norse language. Erlan nodded. ‘Sverð.’ Sword.

The man thumbed his chest. ‘Eímai o Ramedios. Ramedios.’

‘Erlan,’ said Erlan, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Leikr.’

Ramedios repeated the names, then gestured at his other men. ‘Eímaste Éllines.’

Perhaps he meant their tribe. Erlan nodded agreeably, then he pointed again at the ship and then south. ‘You go to Miklagard?’

Ramedios grunted, not understanding.

‘Mik—la—gard.’