Near the harbor, a small rowing boat intercepted Helgi's flagship. A harbor official climbed aboard along a rope ladder and asked the identity and purpose of the visitors upon the deck of this "giant two-masted ship."
"I am the Minister of Naval Affairs of the Kingdom of Britannia, acting under royal orders to open new trade routes. This is His Majesty's letter of credence."
Helgi produced a parchment sealed with red wax. The harbor official accepted it, then returned to shore by boat to report.
While they waited, triangular-sailed vessels passed near the flagship from time to time. Sailors lounged lazily against the rail, basking in the sunshine and the gentle sea breeze.
Judging by size alone, the two-masted square-rigged ship was nearly thirty meters long, drawing the attention of many locals—especially the massive ballistae mounted on the fore and aft decks, which radiated unmistakable intimidation.
An hour later, the harbor official boarded again. "My lord, the governor permits you to enter the port, but while docked, you must disassemble and remove the components of those giant ballistae."
"Understood."
Helgi ordered the crew to comply. Under the official's guidance, the ship slowly berthed at the docks of Lisbon.
At present, more than half of Iberia lay under the rule of the Umayyad Emirate of al-Andalus. With frequent local uprisings, Lisbon's defenses were tight—soldiers crowded the battlements, watching these unfamiliar visitors with wary eyes.
"Stand straight. Don't embarrass me."
After a few words of warning, Helgi stepped onto the gangplank. Ahead stood over two hundred armored soldiers, led by a portly middle-aged noble.
The man wore a loose white robe reaching to his ankles, embroidered with intricate patterns along the collar and hem. A brocade belt cinched his waist, from which hung a curved saber and a pouch of spices.
By comparison, Helgi's attire looked downright shabby—his entire outfit probably wasn't worth as much as the Damascus saber at the man's waist.
After sizing up the tall, broad-shouldered, one-eyed foreigner with a cold expression, the Moorish noble spoke first:
"Two years ago, many merchants came to me with complaints. They said Aslaug arbitrarily raised taxes, driving more than twenty of them into bankruptcy. What explanation does your country have?"
After hearing the translation, Helgi replied calmly, "King Sigurd is dead. Aslaug was killed by rioters. Princess Enya was taken by West Francia. The old royal house has fallen—its actions have nothing to do with us. The one now in power is Vig of Tyne Town."
"The Serpent of the North?"
The Moorish noble had heard the name. He then asked about Gunnar and Ivar. After listening to Helgi's account for more than ten minutes, he gazed out at the sea and sighed.
"The changing of kings… I never imagined it could be so cruel."
With the old regime gone, past disputes were wiped away. Introducing himself as the Governor of Lisbon, the noble permitted merchant ships from the Kingdom of Britannia to sell their goods—on the condition that they pay a hefty tax.
Listening to the translator recite prices and tax rates, Helgi calculated silently. The profits on furs, amber, and whale oil were high, while ordinary textiles yielded little. Dyed cloth and richly patterned printed fabrics would be the real money-makers.
"Thank you for your generosity."
After finalizing the agreement, Helgi arranged for sailors to trade goods at the open-air market along the riverbank. The wares there were astonishingly diverse—spices, cane sugar, olive oil, dates, and cotton cloth. If the proceeds from sales were used to purchase local goods, they would earn another fortune back home.
Busy until afternoon, Helgi received an invitation to dine at the hilltop fortress.
Following the governor's servants, he left the chaotic riverside docks and entered the higher-lying Alfama district.
The buildings here were whitewashed, narrow streets twisting like a maze. In front of some courtyards stood orange trees, their dense branches heavy with unripe fruit, immediately catching Helgi's eye.
"These are…?"
"Oranges," the servant explained. "They're not edible yet. They'll ripen later."
From Helgi's perspective, the higher he went, the more refined the surroundings became. Streets were paved with gravel, and some areas even featured fountains.
"What a city built on hills," he remarked.
"Not just hills—Lisbon stands upon seven hills."
Seven hills? Helgi recalled Vig's description of Rome, which was also said to be a city of seven hills.
Could the number seven hold some special meaning?
Unconsciously, the fortress was already close at hand. Helgi pushed aside such thoughts and carefully examined the solid yet luxurious stronghold.
This place had once been a Roman legionary camp, later rebuilt by the Moors into a stone fortress. Outer sections housed barracks, warehouses, and stables, while the innermost area was the governor's residence.
"My lord, we have arrived."
After walking a short distance, they entered a square courtyard. The surrounding walls were whitewashed; the ground was paved with geometric glazed tiles. An octagonal fountain stood at the center, with citrus trees and roses planted in the corners.
Inside the main hall of the residence, plush Persian carpets covered the floor, the air scented with faint incense. Most striking was a painted porcelain vase placed prominently—soft in color, exquisitely fine in texture. On both sides, wooden lattice windows were draped with woolen tapestries to block the sun.
"This is porcelain—an Eastern luxury."
Noticing Helgi's surprise, the governor lightly tapped the vase, producing a crisp, ringing sound. "The Tang Empire is in turmoil, and the prices of porcelain and silk have soared. This piece alone is worth twenty warhorses—far too expensive, alas."
The banquet itself was dull. Helgi found the governor's ostentatious display irritating but endured it in silence until the feast ended, then politely took his leave.
After five days in Lisbon, Helgi inventoried supplies and prepared to return. Bathed in warm sunlight, he suddenly felt a faint, inexplicable melancholy.
In the Nordic lands and in Britannia, rain and overcast skies were common—especially during the long autumns and winters, when gray clouds weighed down the spirit.
In Lisbon, by contrast, sunlight was not a rare blessing but as ordinary as air and water. Beneath the clear blue sky, one's worries seemed to lighten.
"Captain, what are you thinking about? Don't want to leave?"
The first mate saw through Helgi's mood. "The southern climate really is pleasant. If you're willing to take a little risk, perhaps—"
Helgi cut him off. "What, you want to defect and serve a Moorish lord?"
"No, absolutely not. I heard there's an archipelago in the southern waters of Iberia—plenty of sunshine, no one in control. Why not seize that territory?"
With a dark expression, Helgi entered the captain's cabin and spread out the sea chart. Southwest of Iberia, due west of the Sahara Desert, a line of small writing read:
'Islands possibly exist.'
After weighing the matter for a long time, he returned to the deck and coldly addressed the first mate:
"The route is unknown. I won't gamble the kingdom's fleet on it."
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