Free Saxon: The Emperor's Elephant by Tim Severin Page A

unidentifiable animal skin had been nailed to a cross-beam high enough to be seen above the
heads of the crowd.
    We pushed our way through the press of people and found ourselves in front of a display of anchors, rolls of sailcloth, fishing line and hooks, balls of twine, ropes and nets. The air reeked of
pine tar. The proprietor was a scrawny, pockmarked fellow who was trying to sell a coil of rope to a customer. The local language was close enough to Saxon for me to understand most of his sales
talk. The rope was dark, greasy and – if the man was to be believed – cut from the thick leathery skin of a large animal he called a hross-hvalr, and far superior to rope made from
strands of flax. His client, a thick-necked man with half an ear missing, was fingering the rope doubtfully and saying that he preferred thin strips of good-quality stallion hide so that he could
plait his own rope. ‘One horse’s skin is as good as another. You will save yourself the labour of all that plaiting,’ wheedled the shopkeeper.
    His client was not persuaded and dropped the heavy rope’s end with a disdainful grunt, then wandered off. I waited until he was out of earshot, then asked the shopkeeper. ‘Excuse me,
I heard you speaking of a “hross-hvalr” just now. Is that some sort of horse?’
    The man looked me up and down. He must have seen by my clothes that I was not a seafarer and therefore an unlikely customer. He was about to turn away when perhaps he noticed the colour of my
eyes because he hesitated. His expression, which had been dismissive, changed to one that was more wary.
    ‘Why would you want to know?’ he asked.
    ‘Just curiosity. I’m a stranger to these parts and “hross” sounds much like horse.’
    ‘You’re right in that,’ the man agreed.
    ‘I’m told that many of the animals native to this region are white. I’m wondering if this type of horse is also white.’
    ‘I’ve never seen a live hross-hvalr,’ said the merchant. ‘I get offered lengths of rope made up from their skin. It’s always the same colour as that one
there.’ He nodded towards the coil of rope on the ground. It was a dull, grey-black.
    A thought occurred to me. ‘So you don’t make the rope yourself?’
    ‘No, it comes ready made. The hross-hvalr lives far in the north where the winter nights are so long that there’s plenty of dark time for a man to fill in the hours sitting by his
hearth, slicing up skin into rope.’
    ‘Perhaps I should ask someone from that area,’ I suggested.
    The man paused before replying, cautious about giving information to a stranger.
    ‘If you can help me find what I’m looking for,’ I coaxed, ‘I would gladly pay a small reward.’
    He cocked his head on one side and looked at me sharply. ‘What exactly is it that you are seeking?’
    I hesitated, aware of my own doubts. ‘I’m looking for an unusual sort of horse, a white one. It’s called a unicorn.’
    There was a startled pause, and then he threw back his head and hooted with laughter. ‘A unicorn! I don’t believe it!’
    I stood there, feeling foolish and trying not to show it.
    He laughed so hard, he almost choked. ‘In these parts you’ll find Sleipnir before you come across any unicorn. A hross-hvalr is a horse whale,’ he gasped finally.
    I waited until he had regained his breath and, curbing my irritation, asked him again who had supplied him with horse whale rope.
    ‘His name is Ohthere,’ he told me. ‘He owns a large farm on the coast and so far north that it takes him almost a month to get here, sailing every day and anchoring each night.
He shows up in Kaupang every year, probably the only time he meets anyone outside his own family.’
    ‘Where can I find this Ohthere?’
    The shopkeeper was still chuckling. ‘At the end of the street, on the outskirts of town. He always sets up a big tent there, on the right.’
    ‘Thank you,’ I said, stepping back. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
    ‘And tell