Fall of Kings (66 page)

As Ahmose had walked away disappointed, the pharaoh’s son had come running
after him. Ahmose had stopped and smiled down at him. The boy was about ten,
with a mop of black hair, intelligent eyes, and an eager smile.

“They say you are my uncle,” he asked. “Is that true?”

“Perhaps,” Ahmose told him.

“I am sorry we cannot be friends,” the boy said. “But I will speak to my
father about the slaves. My mother says he can refuse me nothing.”

He had grinned, then turned and ran back to his father’s throne.

Standing in the darkness, Ahmose told Yeshua, “I think Rameses is a stubborn
man and contrary in his nature. I have told him what I want from him; therefore,
that is the last thing he will give me.”

“Then perhaps you should have asked him to keep our people here in Egypte.”

The prophet looked around, startled, and realized that cold-eyed Yeshua had
made a joke. He laughed, and the sound echoed strangely over the land of
despair.

“I will go and speak to him again. Perhaps he will relent now.”

As he set off for the palace, he thought back to the night long before on the
island of Minoa when he had lain by a burning bush and the dreams and visions he
had endured, dosed with opiates by the fey priestess Kassandra. He had seen
mighty waves, rivers running red, darkness at noon, desolation and despair. He
had seen his half brother raw-eyed with grief. He wondered what tragedy could
make the cold-hearted pharaoh suffer so.

Yeshua came after him, grabbing him by the arm.

“You cannot go! He will certainly have you killed this time.”

“Have faith, my friend,” Ahmose told him. “God is great.”

It was the morning of the third day since the destruction of Thera and the
coming of the waves. Helikaon and his son walked through the twilight along the
gray shore of an unnamed island, splashing their bare feet in the shallows.

Astyanax kept stopping to peer into the shallow water. One of the crewmen had
fashioned a shrimping net for him, and he was eager to catch some of the
creatures. So far there was just a handful of the tiny transparent shellfish
flopping about in the bottom of his net. Helikaon waited patiently each time the
boy stopped to add one or two more. After all, there was nothing to hurry for.

Astyanax held up the net again for his father to inspect. “Good boy,”
Helikaon told him. “Now, let’s go back to the camp and eat them.”

The sky still was clouded with ash, and there was a constant light ashfall,
leaving a grainy grayness on everything. Even the crew’s campfires had to be
protected from the ashfall or they would go out quickly. As father and son
passed the cairn of small rocks raised to mark the bones of their comrades,
Helikaon saw that it now appeared as if carved from a single smooth stone.

The
Xanthos
had survived all four of the great waves, each one smaller
than the one before. After the brutal punishment of the first, Helikaon had not
even tried to steer the ship. He just had held on grimly, one arm around the aft
rail, one around Oniacus, who by then was unconscious. Yet gallantly the ship
had plunged unerringly like a lance into each mountainous wave, as if steering
herself. When the fourth wave had passed, Helikaon had gazed out over the sea.
They had been swept into unknown waters. He had no idea where they were. He
quickly untied himself and Oniacus, then raced down to the lower deck.

He never would forget the awful sight that struck his eyes. Andromache hung,
helpless and still, from the ropes she had tied to a rear rowing bench. Her face
was pale, and her hair drifted like seaweed in the shallow water on the planks
of the deck. She still held the boys in a viselike grip. Both were alive, but
they were sodden and white-faced, silent with shock.

Helikaon untied them, then picked Andromache up, dread in his heart. Her head
lolled loosely, and her eyes were half-open, unseeing. He threw her down on the
waterlogged deck, turning her to her stomach and pressing down on her back to
try to expel the water. It seemed to make no difference. Her body was limp,
unmoving. Crying out with anguish, he lifted her by the waist so that her head
was down and shook her like a rag doll. At last she gave a faint sigh. Then
water gushed out of her mouth, and she gave a weak cough. He shook her again,
and more water gouted out. She started coughing harder and trying to struggle
from his grip. He picked her up and pulled her tightly to him, tears of
gratitude and relief falling down his cheeks.

They had lost twenty-nine of the sixty-eight souls on board. Strangely, the
one-armed veteran Agrios had survived, but the youngster Praxos had been swept
away. Of the survivors, many were injured, and two died later that day.

Helikaon had wrenched Oniacus’ dislocated shoulder back in place, tied it
securely, and given the injured man the steering oar. Then he and Andromache had
joined the uninjured crewmen to row the ship slowly through the ash-covered sea.
It had been hard to see in the constant grayness, and Helikaon had despaired of
finding a berth for the night when a darker shape had appeared out of the
half-light.

It was a small low island, much of it scoured clean by the waves. They could
not beach the ship, for they did not have the manpower to launch it again. They
dropped the stone anchors in the shallows and struggled to the beach as best
they could. Exhausted, they all slept where they lay regardless of the waves
lapping at their feet. In the morning Helikaon sent out men to look for fresh
water. They quickly discovered a clear spring nearby, and for the first time
since they had left Thera, Helikaon knew they were safe for a while.

That night they recognized when sunset arrived only by the astonishing
display of colors—bronze, red, and purple—in the darkened sky. Helikaon now knew
which way was west, and he felt encouraged by the knowledge.

The next day they held funeral rites for their comrades. With no beasts to
kill for sacrifice, the men poured libations from the one surviving jug of wine
to placate Poseidon, who had brought them to this place, and to Apollo, begging
him to bring back the sun.

As captain, Helikaon took part in the rites, but he walked away as soon as
possible. He found the men’s simple devotion unfathomable and remembered a
conversation he had had with Odysseus concerning the men’s faithfulness to such
unreliable gods.

“All seamen are superstitious, or pious in their devotion, however you see
it,” the Ithakan king said. “They are constantly in peril, at the mercy of the
wind and the treacherous sea. Giving names to the elements and treating them
like living men with human emotions makes them feel they have control over
events which would otherwise seem random and meaningless.

“They are simple men and revere the gods as they revered their own fathers.
When angry, their fathers could lash out at them and hurt them. When happy, they
would feed them and keep them safe. So they try to keep the gods content, giving
them food and wine and praising them, worshipping them. Do not sneer at their
faith, Helikaon. We all need something to have faith in.”

“You do not believe in the gods, Odysseus.”

“I did not say that,” the older man replied. “I do not think the sun god
Apollo drives his chariot across the sky each day like a slave tasked with a
very dull chore, but it does not mean I do not believe. I have traveled all
around the Great Green, and I have met men who worship the weather god of the
Hittites, and Osiris, the Gypptos’ god of the dead, and the child devourer
Molech, and the grim lonely god of the desert folk, but no nation of people
seems more blessed than any other. Each has its triumphs and tragedies.”

He thought for a while. “I believe there is a being beyond comprehension who
guides our path and judges us. That is all I know.” He grinned and added, “And I
fervently hope there is no Hall of Heroes where we must spend eternity supping
with the blood-smeared Herakles and Alektruon.”

On the gray beach in their still, twilight world, Helikaon gazed toward the
east. He thought he could detect a breath of breeze, and the sky seemed to be
lightening in that direction. He wondered if they ever would see a cloudless day
or a starry night again.

He smiled. Ahead of him he could see Andromache and Dex walking toward them
along the shore. Even her dress of flame seemed diminished in the gray light.

They met and stood facing each other. He put up his hand and brushed ash from
her cheek. He looked into her gray-green eyes.

“You are beautiful,” he told her. “How can you be so beautiful when covered
with ash?”

She smiled, then asked, “You walked to the headland again? Do you still hope
to see the
Bloodhawk
?”

He answered ruefully. “No, I do not. The ship is smaller than the
Xanthos
and was closer to Thera. I do not think it survived. But perhaps its crew did.
Or some of them. Odysseus was a strong swimmer, although it was a long time
before I found that out.” He smiled at the memory. “And he claimed he could
float on his back all day, a goblet of wine balanced on his belly.”

She laughed, and the air seemed to lighten at the sound. She looked up. “The
sky is getting brighter, I think.”

He nodded. “If the breeze picks up, we might sail today.”

The main mast of the
Xanthos
had been swept away by the sea, along
with the black horse sail, but there was a spare mast lying the length of the
ship, and it had been raised in readiness. There were extra oars stored in the
bowels of the galley and a new sail of plain linen. When the men had rolled it
out and checked the sail for weaknesses or tears, Oniacus had asked him, “Will
we paint the black horse of Dardanos on this one, Golden One?” Helikaon had
shaken his head. “I think not.” We need a new symbol for the future, he had told
himself.

“But you do not know where we are. How can you know where we are going?”
Andromache asked.

“We will sail west. Eventually we will see familiar land.”

“Perhaps we have been swept far beyond the known seas.”

He shook his head. “In our terror, my love, the great waves seemed to last an
eternity. But in truth, it was not very long. We cannot be far from the lands we
know, but they might have been changed by the waves and be hard to recognize.”

“Then we will still reach the Seven Hills by winter?”

“I am sure we will,” he told her honestly. His heart lifted at the thought of
the fledgling city where families from Troy and Dardanos were building their new
lives. The land was lush and verdant, the air sweet and the soil rich, the
hillsides teeming with animal life. They would start again there as a family,
the four of them, and leave their old world behind. He wondered if he ever would
return to Troy, but as he thought it, he immediately knew he would not. This
would be the
Xanthos’
last great journey.

He said, “Once we reach the mainland or a large island, we should be able to
enlist more oarsmen.”

“I can row again if needed.”

He gently took her hands and turned them over. The palms were raw and
blistered from helping row the
Xanthos
to this barren island. He said
nothing but gazed at her quizzically.

“I will bandage them as the men do, and then I can row,” she argued, her face
stern. “I am as strong as a man.”

His heart filled with love for her. “You are the strongest woman I have ever
known,” he whispered. “I loved you the moment I first saw you. You are my life
and my dreams and my future. I am nothing without you.”

She gazed at him in wonder, and tears came to her eyes. He took her in his
arms and held her close, feeling the beating of her heart against his chest.
Then they turned and walked hand in hand back along the beach, their two sons
trailing behind.

The light breeze from the east picked up. The sky started to lighten, and
after a while the sun came out.

EPILOGUE

Queen Andromache stood on the grassy hilltop, motionless, as she had been
since the morning. Now the sun was falling brightly into the west, and still she
watched the preparations on the old ship below. She was dressed in a faded brown
robe and wrapped in her ancient green shawl. She felt the weight of her years.
Her knees ached and her back was on fire, but still she stood.

She saw someone move out of the crowd on the beach below and sighed. Yet
another serving maid with a cup of warm goat’s milk and advice to rest for a
while? She squinted shortsightedly, then smiled. Ah, she thought, clever.

Her small grandson trotted up the hill and without a word sat down on the
grass at her feet. After a moment she knelt beside him, ignoring the pain in her
knees.

“Well, Dios,” she asked, “what did your father tell you to say to me?”

The seven-year-old squinted up at her through his dark fringe, and she
impatiently brushed his hair from his face. So like his namesake, she thought.

“Papa says it’s time now.”

She glanced at the sun. “Not yet,” she told him.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. She saw that his gaze was
fixed on the
Xanthos.
“What are you thinking, boy?” she asked.

“They say Grandpapa will dine tonight with the gods in the Hall of Heroes,”
he ventured.

“Maybe.”

He looked up at her, his eyes wide. “Isn’t it true, Grandmama? Grandpapa
will
dine with Argurios, and Hektor and Achilles, and Odysseus?” he
persisted anxiously.

“Certainly not Odysseus,” she told him briskly.

“Why not? Because he is the Prince of Lies?”

She smiled. “Odysseus is the most honest man I’ve ever known. No, because
Odysseus is not dead.”

The people of the Seven Hills last had heard from Ithaka some ten years
before. The collapse of the Mykene empire, its leaders dead, its armies in
ruins, its treasuries empty, had opened the way for barbarians from the north to
sweep down through the mainland, and where once-proud cities had ruled, there
lay only darkness and fear. But little Ithaka still stood, as Penelope and her
growing son Telemachus stood on the cliffs each sunset watching for their king
to come home. Andromache remembered Odysseus carving his wife’s face in the sand
and wondered if he was doing it still somewhere.