The Saracen fleet sailed into the Aegean, then, surprisingly, veered south towards the Nile delta.
“Where are we bound?” Óttar, who didn’t know these waters, called to Ishaq. The silk merchant hurried over to stand beside him. He pointed at the coast, “Unless I err, Jarl, the estuary you see yonder is the river Nile. But why the governor of Tripoli would want to enter the river, I cannot say.”
“Mmm. I regret not arriving in Trebizond some days earlier. That damned snowbound pass—it has cost us months! Who knows whether I’ll ever get to sell my silk?”
Ishaq murmured words of consolation, knowing the jarl would recapture vigour and enthusiasm as soon as he wielded his battle-axe.
That moment was imminent. The fleet surged upstream, the ships powered by oarsmen, sails lowered and furled.
