The Long Ships

Get that sail rigged!

Hurry it up!

And so, by the storm's fury...

...he lost all he loved most in this world:

His ship and his shipmates.

But he was washed ashore, alone.

The only surviv or.

Monks found him and took him to their monastery...

...where they tenderly nursed him, never asking his name or his country.

And gradually he grew stronger.

As he slowly recovered, he saw that the holy men...

...collected tiny coloured stones.

And, with great patience and loving skill...

...made pictures from them to decorate their chapel.

And the pictures told a story.

A story of a mighty bell made of solid gold.

For days without number the holy men laboured to mak e this mighty bell.

They made ready a great cauldron, and under it a fire burned day and night.

Then came the gold.

Gold from the ends of the earth. Gold offerings of the crusaders.

Gold urns from the lands of Islam. Gleaming, liquid gold.

A kingdom of gold.

Gold idols. Golden rings tak en from the harems.

From wives. From princesses. From courtesans.

Gold money. Gold from ships, mines and caravans.

From mosques, palaces and sacred cities.

Gold stolen by robbers from the tombs of Pharaohs.

Golden cups. Golden plate. Treasure won by conquering armies.

And from its hiding place came the fabulous chain of Nimrud Dag...

...of the 10, 000 golden links.

At last, the huge cauldron was so filled with molten gold...

...that no more could be added.

Then it was poured into a gigantic clay mould.

For days it stood cooling until the hour struck when the clay was torn away.

And so the great golden bell came shining into the world.

They smoothed it. They polished it.

Then they called on it to speak.

And they ran back in terror and in awe. And covered their ears.

For this was the Mother of Voices.

Thank you, my friends, for listening to my story.

A romance, you think? A legend?

No, my friends.

May Allah strike me dead if all I have told you is not true.

Somewhere...

...lost, stolen, perhaps hidden away...

...hangs that great golden bell.

Where? What happened to the bell?

There are those who know.

Do you?

Perhaps.

- Tell us! - What became of the bell?

Now wait. Wait, my friends.

First I must have encouragement.

My friend, thank you. Thank you.

Please. Please? Please, my friend.

How can we believe a man with eyes as pale as yours?

I am a Circassian. I have the eyes of the north. Please.

You have the cold look of a liar.

I come from Byzantium, my friend. That is how I know about the bell.

And you?

Take him.

You must not make this journey, my lord.

I must.

We are not sailors. The ocean is not like the desert.

It was not meant to be crossed by us.

I have searched from the mountains to the sea.

Now I must know what lies beyond the horizon.

Understand? That is what I must do.

- Then take me with you. - Your duties are here.

My duties are with my husband.

I can no longer sit and wish away the days as the other women do...

...while you chase a legend, a fairy tale...

...that has already cost us dearly in lives and gold.

I am your wife, my lord.

Without your affection, I wither and die.

How long am I to be denied your attentions?

How long must I endure your abstinence from pleasure?

Until Allah's divine guidance leads me to the treasures of Islam.

That bell is made of pure gold.

Stolen by the Christian armies when they plundered their way across our cities...

...to the dishonour and humiliation...

...of our ancestors.

It was no fairy tale.

Then neither is your appetite for power.

Do not say that again, Aminah.

The bell does exist.

Somewhere in this world, it rests in a Christian land.

So do the pyramids. And the Gardens of Babylon exist.

Where will you stop, my husband?

When I have found it.

We have a stranger from the market. He was talking of the Mother of Voices.

Take him to the tower.

I'm afraid that...

I'm afraid there's some grave error, sir.

I am informed that you know the whereabouts of a golden bell...

...the one people call the Mother of Voices.

I see.

Then, that must be the mistake. No. No, no, I only know the legend.

So do I. I want to know the truth.

But there is no truth.

I was trying to earn enough for food and shelter. No more than that, I swear.

But you know there are always dreamers who will believe anything.

I am no dreamer, Circassian. As you shall see.

The bell, Circassian.

Please, let me explain, my lord. I am not a Circassian.

I'm from the north. A Norseman.

I'm a Viking.

I was shipwrecked. I'm simply trying to get back to my homeland.

- You're lying. - No, my lord, I'm not ly...

- What's that? - The bell, Circassian.

I know nothing about the bell.

Out in the market I was lying, believe me.

- I do not believe you. - I know nothing but stories and legends.

I picked them up in Sicily, Castile, everywhere.

- I don't believe that the bell exists... - Stop lying!

This always happens! I tell the truth, nobody believes me.

- I lie, everybody believes me. - Raschid?

What are you gonna...?

Now, wait.

Now, wait a minute! Wait! Wait! Wait a minute!

All right!

All right, my lord.

I'll tell you what I know.

Everything I know.

Thank you.

Well...

You see...

We were on our way south, on a raiding voyage.

It'd been a hard month, it'd been blowing for days on end.

And when we did find calm water. It was only along with fog, my lord.

A thick, dense fog.

And... And then...

And then?

And then...

He knew, Raschid.

- Did he tell you his name? - No, my lord.

He was nothing. A sailor, a dreamer. A Norseman!

A Viking.

Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!

A waste of good timber and pitch.

I never thought we'd build a fighting ship for old Slyguts to burn on.

At least our village won't be so poor for a while.

- Father, she's beautiful! Like she's alive! - Less enthusiasm, or he'll raise the price.

Krok, is she strong enough to sail a dead king?

My people have never built a better ship, my liege.

Never in all our history of shipbuilding.

She could sail to the end of the world.

It is a pity that she will never fight but is only to be burned.

For my funeral? I know what you really think...

You wish I was already laid out on it. My funeral sail aflame...

...drifting my soul to Valhalla. And drifting me out of your sight.

Sire, nothing could be further from my mind!

- You will surely outlive me. - I'll see to that, Krok.

- Faster! - Stroke! Stroke!

- They'll never be able to stop. - Now comes the true test.

Now!

Well, my lord Harald? Did you ever see a finer ship?

- My men were handling her, don't forget. - But the ship is good.

I have spent everything I had building her.

- On the question of payment... - Not so fast.

First, I must get my shipmaster's report.

- How is she, Sven? - The best I've handled.

- I'd trade my place in Valhalla to sail her. - Don't be so eager for Valhalla.

- Prepare for sailing home. - Sire.

I, Harald, king of Norseland, take this ship!

They play like children.

In my day, they were real Vikings.

The days of the long ships and the tall men.

Now they are merely potbellied swillers of ale! No!

That's right, my liege, times have changed.

More ale, wench.

There's no more ale! What will we do?

- There isn't any more! - They're screaming for ale!

Rhykka!

Rhykka!

- Go back to your cooking fires. - There's no more ale. We're finished.

- Speak for yourself. - They haven't made the bargain yet.

Well, go and get the reserve barrels!

There is no more ale!

Get out! Stop it! Get out!

You seem to be running out of ale.

More ale, my girl! Quickly.

Orm, my boy, see what's holding up the ale.

- That's enough! Get out! - Vahlin, we need more ale.

- No more credit. - We must have more.

- Money. - We'll pay, I swear.

- No money, no ale. - You miserable goat!

What is this? Get some more ale in there.

Go on, tell him.

A man has to look to his own. No payment, no ale.

You dare stand there before your lawful thane and...

- How much? - Twelve gold pieces.

- I don't want to do this, but... - My badge.

It's worth 100 times your miserable 12 pieces. Take it.

Until the king pays me.

I don't want to...

Come on, get these barrels open.

All is well, my liege, plenty of ale.

- Would you like some more, sire? - No, thank you, Orm.

Your youngest is nearly a man.