The latter words were spoken for the benefit of Irnic, Zarabdas and the king, to whom Britannia was only a word, same’s Eirrin its neighbour, which they knew of as Hivernia or Hibernia, these Suevi. Wulfhere knew the story of Vortigern and his importation of Hengist; knew it as well as his Gaelic blood-brother. He should have done. Hengist the Jute was Wulfhere’s greatest enemy. The Dane’s blue eyes glittered coldly at thought of that burly Jutish tiger, but Hengist was far away in northern waters-the lying treacherous triple-dealing bastard.

But it was the Vandals that mattered, this far south.

“Aye, Bonifacius,” Wulfhere said in his resonant rumble. “Well, he’s dead now and no matter his name save on Loki’s list of Great Fools. The Vandals took Carthage for themselves. Now they’ve made themselves the greatest sea power on the Mediterranean.” He lurched forward, and his elbow jarred down onto the table as he pointed. “But what worth be there in that? The Mediterranean is enclosed and tideless as a washtub. Once it was Rome’s lake and now it’s the Vandals’! Fine for children to go swimming in… but lord King, it’s a man’s ocean ye have to deal with here!”

Noting that everyone at table had leaned a bit back from him, Wulfhere let his shoulders and his voice drop a bit. “The Vandals still build their ships to the Romish pattern. Believe me, that is not suited to the wild Atlantic or the Bay of Treachery yonder!” He waved a mighty arm, thickly pelted with red hair, unerringly in the direction of the sea off Brigantium. Wagging his big head, Wulfhere leaned back and spoke as if he were a Greek lecturing a class.

“None but the boldest of Vandal captains dares venture past the Pillars of Heracles, as they call ’em, and up these Hispanic coasts. Those I and the Wolf,” he said, now indicating Cormac by banging a fist off the Gael’s thigh, “have met-in their blundering triremes-we have sailed merry circles around.”