Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) (9 page)

14

As the night progressed, the guests became more raucous, until finally, in ones and twos, they begged their leave, departing after a final congratulation offered to the proud parents. Eventually only the royal family and Peithon remained, though the magus was still present, waiting on the king’s permission to leave. They all sat in a circle of benches drawn up close together in the center of the room, the white chalk now smudged by countless feet crossing to and fro.

In a lull in the conversation, the old magus, seated a little apart, turned an inquiring gaze on the king. It was tradition that at the end of every family banquet would come a story for those still awake. Often the storyteller would be Markos or Nikolas, but on this occasion the king had requested that the magus honor them with a tale.

‘Magus,’ Markos said with a nod, ‘I believe now is the time, should it suit you.’

The magus moved his bench a little closer to the circle. ‘Which story would you like to hear, sire?’

The king turned to Nikolas and Helena, now seated together, with Lukas on his father’s lap. With Nikolas’s thick black beard and broad-shouldered frame he looked every inch the king-to-be, while the beautiful blonde woman beside him was the model of a future queen.

‘Lukas?’ Nikolas said, never tiring of using his son’s new name. ‘What tale would you like to hear?’

Warm and comfortable in his father’s arms, his fear of the magus now somewhat diminished, Lukas spoke up boldly. ‘I want to hear about King Palemon and the eldren.’

The magus tilted his head at the king.

‘Very well,’ Markos said.

The stooped old man cleared his throat and looked down, before casting his eyes on the people seated in front of him. The silence grew for a time, broken only by the faint crackle of the last embers in the hearths.

Finally, the magus spoke.

‘Long ago, our people, and all other people, fought a terrible war with a race separate from our own, those we call the eldren. Where we are sometimes dark-skinned and sometimes light, the eldren are universally pale. Where we have brown hair and blonde, the eldren have hair of silver. Where we are strong workers, able to mine and shape metal, the eldren are thin and weak, and because they hate the touch of metal, they carry no steel or bronze weapons. But’—the magus let the word hang in the air for a moment—‘they can change their shape.’

Lukas shivered in his father’s arms, his eyes fixed on the magus.

The old man put out his right hand. ‘On one side was the kingdom of Aleuthea, greatest of all human civilizations. We still see their monuments in Sarsica, and it is clear that there has been no people so advanced since. Palemon, King of Aleuthea, is said to have lived in a palace nineteen stories high. The golden rays of the Lighthouse could once be seen from as far away as Myana, the Sarsican capital.’

All present were silent while they digested the magus’s words.

He then held out the other hand. ‘On the other side were the eldren in their magical land, Sindara. Their king, Marrix, was the most powerful eldran who ever lived. All eldren are magically connected to the ultimate source of life energy, but Marrix more than any other. When Marrix changed shape,’ the magus’s voice became low and ominous, ‘the whole world trembled.’

He now clasped his palms together and his thin arms tensed. ‘Some say that King Palemon started the war in order to claim Sindara for his own, and others that it was Marrix who vowed to end the human race. In any event, the war was long and bitter. Multitudes died on both sides. Bodies floated along the shores of both the Aleuthean Sea and the Maltherean Sea, turning the shallow waters red.

‘To do battle in the skies the eldren could become furies, men with wings like bats, and even dragons, huge reptilian creatures with wings each as big as this room. To fight in the sea they could become merfolk, men with tails like fish, and even serpents, monstrous sea snakes that could tear a ship to pieces. To war on land they could grow in size to become ogres, with the largest so big we call them giants.’

The magus started coughing and bent to pick up a cup at his feet; he was so old that the process took a long time, but Dion knew he wouldn’t appreciate any help. He sipped and then resumed.

‘If they could have changed for long periods the ancients would never have stood a chance. Palemon, king of Aleuthea, would have seen his proud kingdom laid to waste. But they could change for only short periods. For they sometimes went wild.’

Dion found himself falling under the spell of the magus’s story. Aleuthea was gone now; the stories said the island nation sank beneath the sea a thousand years ago. But signs of the ancient civilization still existed, and he’d once seen a crumbled ruin on the edge of the Aleuthean Sea where there were obelisks so big that the Sarsican builders knew neither how they were cut nor erected.

‘Seeking a way to gain an advantage over the humans, King Marrix made a magical horn out of a conch to recall the wild ones and bring them home. Blowing the horn brought all the wildren back to him, and if wildness was upon them they were reminded of their true selves and turned back. At the end of a terrible battle, when the human dead numbered in the tens of thousands and the fighting went on for so long that hundreds of eldren turned wild, King Palemon first heard its call. As he saw the wildren travel in the direction of the sound, he realized that the eldren now possessed a decisive advantage.’

‘What did he do?’ Lukas asked.

‘Shh,’ Helena hushed.

‘In a daring raid, King Palemon went to Sindara, the eldren homeland, and stole the horn. He put it in an iron box so that it could never be reclaimed, for no eldran can willingly touch pure metal. Raging, King Marrix launched attack after attack, but he was reckless, and ever more eldren became wildren. His army grew smaller with every sortie.’

Dion thought about the wildren rumored to infest the Sea of Serpents. Were all of them former fighters in the war against King Palemon?

‘Knowing he was close to victory, Palemon launched a great assault on Sindara. It was a mighty struggle, but he was finally victorious. Yet even in defeat Marrix could claim revenge, for after the war’s end, Sindara became a wasteland, a place we now call Cinder Fen. Any promise the land had for farming and mining was lost, for many wildren were, and still are, drawn to Cinder Fen, the same way a horse returns to its stable.’

There was silence in the banqueting hall as the story reached its conclusion.

‘King Palemon drove the remaining eldren into the Wilds, where they still live. Some also live in the Waste, closer to the Salesian continent. Palemon’s last years, however, were not content. Disaster struck when the ocean rose, burying the kingdom of Aleuthea beneath the waves. But I will save that story for another day.’

The magus stood and bowed. ‘By your leave, sire?’

‘Thank you, magus,’ King Markos said as he took a long draught of his wine. ‘You may go.’

The old man shuffled out of the room, leaving the group of seven behind. The men were in varying states of intoxication: Markos was bleary and Nikolas was looking as ready to retire as Dion himself felt, but Peithon was swaying slightly as he stared down into his cup.

‘All eldren should be eradicated like the vermin they are.’ Peithon swished the red wine, spilling some on his expensive clothes.

Thea frowned. ‘That wine you are so drunk on came from Phalesia, via the narrows that an eldran helped clear.’

Peithon’s broad face reddened as he turned on the queen. ‘What manner of woman are you, to preach peace with the race that destroyed your family?’

‘Peace,’ Markos said wearily, holding up a hand. ‘Peace between my beloved queen, and my loyal companion and first adviser.’ He turned to Dion’s mother, whose pretty face was curled into a scowl. ‘Wife, Peithon has fought by my side in many battles. And some of those battles were against groups of wildren. We lost good men. Peithon also lost his bride three weeks before his wedding day. Will you come to an accord with him?’

‘Yes, husband.’ Thea nodded stiffly.

Markos now addressed Peithon. ‘Peithon, Thea is my beloved wife, whom I love. She has helped us find a path to a peaceful solution for living so close to the eldren in the Wilds. They now aid us rather than hindering us when we destroy the wildren who were once their kin. She is also your queen, and deserving of your respect. Do you see the wisdom in peace?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Peithon said. When the king looked away, Dion saw Peithon throw his mother a look of loathing.

‘It is late,’ the king said. ‘We have had a long day. But,’ he looked at Dion, ‘I have said I would make a decision regarding my youngest son’s request, and here it is.’

Dion sat up, his tiredness vanishing.

‘Nikolas is the heir and commander of the army, as well as a skilled warrior, the best I have seen in my many years. He has a beautiful wife and a strong child, Lukas, my grandson.’

Markos nodded at the boy, who was now fast asleep.

‘But Dion has yet to take on the responsibilities of his brother. Danger to the kingdom is ever present. A warship from Ilea has arrived at the harbor of Phalesia, our closest neighbor, and it may be the first of many. Dion wishes to prove himself, and I believe him when he states the importance of filling in the gaps in our knowledge. Dion will go to Phalesia to learn more of this vessel and its commander.’

Dion nodded his acceptance. He saw his mother looking at him with concern.

‘But,’ Markos said in his gravelly voice, ‘if the warship has departed, Dion will return to Xanthos.’

Dion struggled to hide his disappointment.

‘He will return to Xanthos unless Aristocles, First Consul of Phalesia, gives his blessing for a voyage to Ilea to be made – on behalf of both our nations. If such a thing comes to pass, Dion will serve at the behest of the first consul, placing himself under his leadership. It will be Aristocles who will be the one to decide if Dion should go to Ilea to learn about the sun king’s realm across the Maltherean Sea.’

15

Aristocles walked barefoot along the pebbled shore. On his right the waves made a familiar hiss as the water crashed onto the small stones, while on the left the smooth wall of the sloped defensive embankment rose to a height of sixty feet. He wore a thick tunic of blue silk, holding it above his ankles to keep the hem from dragging
.

He glanced at the group he had with him, also barefoot and finely dressed. Nilus and the other four consuls were arrayed around him, so that Aristocles led them all from the center. Round-faced Nilus’s expression of jocularity looked a little forced to Aristocles’ experienced eyes. The other four consuls smiled as they walked, much as they would as they made their way to any banquet or symposium where there would be flowing wine and loose conversation. But they also appeared to be keeping a close check on feelings of anxiety, with one consul fidgeting as he walked along the beach and another incessantly smoothing his hair.

The final member of the group was Aristocles’ eldest daughter. She walked close by his side, standing tall despite her trepidation.

‘You look beautiful,’ Aristocles said to Chloe.

Chloe looked down at herself self-consciously. She wore a new chiton made specifically for this occasion, a gauzy garment of white folds that contrasted with her long near-black hair. It was bunched at the waist, tied with a golden rope, and left her arms bare. The neckline was low enough for the copper amulet bearing the symbol of Aeris, a cross with a double loop, to be clearly visible, but not so revealing as to be scandalous.

It was at times like this that she reminded Aristocles more than ever of his late wife. Like Chloe, she had been a dark-haired beauty. Like Chloe, she was never afraid of holding her own in the company of men.

‘How long will we have to stay?’ Chloe asked.

As they walked they passed fishing boats, colorfully painted vessels with horizontal stripes of yellow, crimson, and brilliant blue. The sun had set, falling into the horizon as they’d walked, and now the sky took on a purple hue. The breeze began to strengthen, flattening clothes to bodies, but it was a warm wind; the summer promised to be hot.

Ahead, Aristocles could see the unmistakable bulk of the unpainted Ilean warship, the
Nexotardis
, its outline horizontal at the sides but ingeniously curved upward at both ends. The bireme occupied its own piece of shore at the bay’s far end and had been given a wide berth by the Phalesians ever since its arrival. The ship’s repairs were finished now, and it looked fit and ready to depart.

‘I don’t know,’ Aristocles said.

Sixty Phalesian hoplites stood on the beach, a careful distance from the warship, at their ease but standing close by as an additional precaution. Kargan had said he would depart with the dawn. The soldiers would stay until he left.

‘Amos and his men are already here.’ Nilus nodded in their direction. ‘Chloe, if you want to leave early, have some soldiers escort you.’

For the first time, as they approached the bireme, Aristocles found himself close enough to read the lettering on her side. ‘
Nexotardis
,’ he read.

‘A strange name, and a strange people,’ Nilus said. ‘They insist we give their ship a wide berth, and then they invite us on board for a farewell banquet. I will never understand them.’

‘What is important is that we understand this ship,’ one of the other consuls said. ‘This is our chance to see it up close.’

‘Everyone, keep your eyes and ears open,’ Aristocles said. ‘Ask many questions and answer few.’

‘And why invite your daughter?’ Nilus was shaking his head.

‘Kargan asked for a musician and suggested Chloe. I couldn’t deny her existence, given the fact that he has met her.’

‘Father gave me the option of refusing,’ Chloe said.

Aristocles took in the sight of the bireme as they walked to the lowered gangway, little more than a plank with steps fitted at regular intervals. He’d seen bigger merchant vessels, but this was easily the largest warship he’d ever encountered. He looked at the spike of the bronze ram, prominently visible with the warship drawn up on the beach bow first. He tried not to stare too hard, but he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

‘Aristocles,’ Nilus whispered. ‘Face front.’

Aristocles led Chloe up the gangway, their progress made easier by the fact that they wore no boots or sandals. Reaching the top deck, open to the elements, he was confronted by a long space of planks worn smooth by the passage of countless feet, cleared for the occasion. The section of decking farthest from shore, behind the big mast, had been set up for a banquet. Cushions clustered in piles beside carpets woven with strange dizzying patterns. Swarthy bare-chested men in loose loincloths held small wine jugs ready to pour. Immense iron bowls used as braziers cast warm light, tended unceasingly by dedicated slaves, for the danger of fire aboard a wooden ship was obvious.

Kargan waited to greet the consuls as they crested the gangway. He wore the same flowing yellow robe and curved dagger at his waist he had worn on his visit to the first consul’s villa. Aristocles could smell the sweet scent of oil in his black hair and curled beard.

‘First Consul,’ he addressed Aristocles, towering over the Phalesian. ‘Welcome to the
Nexotardis
. And your daughter is here. Welcome, lady.’

‘We are honored to have been invited,’ Aristocles said. He cast his eye over the deck, seeing dozens of Ileans, all strangers. Some were obviously slaves, but he found it difficult to ascertain if others were marines, officers, or crewmen.

‘First Consul, this is Hasha, the commander of my oarsmen. He will seat you while slaves bring refreshment.’

Aristocles followed the Ilean, a lean man with a hooked nose and curled mustaches, who led him to one of the carpets.

‘We will sit in the manner to which we are accustomed in our lands,’ Hasha said.

‘Of course, I would expect no different.’

Aristocles made himself comfortable, following Hasha’s example and arranging the cushions behind his back. Soon the other four consuls were also seated on the carpets, with Chloe reclining beside her father.

Aristocles saw that despite the presence of so many men on deck, Kargan had them in careful order, with the Phalesians in a section with the men he presumed were the senior officers and crewmen, while the rougher-looking Ileans were placed near the bow. The ship’s crew displayed an astonishing variety of builds, from lean to squat, and skin tones from the darkest brown to a light olive color little different from the Phalesians. Some of the men had hooked noses while others had wide mouths and deep-set eyes. Aristocles guessed that they weren’t all Ileans; the crew was likely drawn from across the Salesian continent.

The last glow of twilight had faded from the sky and a million pinpricks now shone in night’s curtain above. Though the warship was drawn up on the beach, her stern, where Aristocles’ group sat high on the upper deck, was in the water, and rocked gently from side to side. He glanced up when he heard a soft patter that became a rumble and saw a man with a drum between his knees, tapping a rhythm with his fingers that caused the heart to beat a little faster.

Remembering that he needed to learn about the warship’s construction while he was here, Aristocles ignored the men and instead scanned the deck, running his eyes over the timbers and mast. But he realized swiftly that with the lower decks sealed by boxlike coverings placed over the hatches there was only so much he could learn. The mast was tall and as thick as a man’s waist; it would have been a mighty tree in life. The oars were all down below. Kargan had risked little by inviting the consuls to this departure feast, for this beast’s skeleton and muscles were all hidden from view.

Aristocles made a quick count and saw that while the top deck appeared crowded, with one hundred and twenty oarsmen alone – slaves, all of them, knowing the Ileans – only a small proportion of the crew was present. The ship would be crowded below decks.

He nodded as a slave handed him a wooden cup filled with wine, but Aristocles felt unsettled. It was strange to be feasting, while just a few feet below this very deck, over a hundred miserable souls huddled on their rowing benches, resting before their work began with the dawn.

‘Now it is my turn to serve you wine,’ Kargan’s voice boomed as he seated himself near Aristocles, pushing aside one of the other consuls in the process.

And with those words, the banquet began.

The drum’s rhythm and volume increased. Conversation became loud and laughter more frequent. The only light was the dim crimson glow of the coals in the iron bowls, illuminating faces with reddish tones, lending an eerie feeling to the festive mood.

Food came after the wine. Aristocles ate his fill – it would be rude to do otherwise – but then his heart sank as more slaves brought yet more food. It was Phalesian fare, sourced from the agora, and as good as anything Aristocles ate at his own table. Well-trained slaves handed out a cold assortment of olives, nuts, fresh and dried cheeses, flat bread, figs, roasted goat, pig ears, and smoked fish. Some unfamiliar spices had been liberally sprinkled over the meats, but Aristocles found the flavors surprisingly pleasant.

Kargan ate everything, and insisted Aristocles do the same. He drained his cup with every mouthful and waited expectantly, watching and scowling, his glare becoming ever more fierce until the first consul’s wine cup was empty. It would then be refilled immediately.

Checking on his daughter, Aristocles saw that an Ilean officer was regaling Chloe and Nilus with a bawdy tale. Some of the humor appeared to be lost on the Phalesians, and when the Ilean laughed uproariously Chloe merely smiled, while Nilus looked bemused.

Kargan and Aristocles spoke of Phalesian cooking and Sarsican wine – the warship’s commander said that for the banquet he’d gone to the market and asked the wine sellers to supply him with the same wine they sold to the first consul. They talked about the weather in Ilea and the places the wealthy went to escape the heat of summer. Aristocles tried to discuss music, but the mind-numbing repetition of the drums appeared to be enough for Kargan’s senses.

‘More food!’ Kargan shouted.

The wine was taking its toll, and Aristocles was wondering whether the time was before midnight or after when Nilus leaned forward. ‘How long will this go on?’

Kargan overheard him. He grabbed Nilus’s upper arm and pulled him over, so that Nilus tumbled on top of the swarthy master of the
Nexotardis
in a tangle of white cloth.

‘This is a real banquet,’ Kargan roared into Nilus’s ear. ‘It will go on until the last star vanishes, of course. More wine for the consul!’

Nilus righted himself and rearranged his tunic as well he could given his unfocused eyes and the way his fingers kept grasping on empty air. His round face was bright red.

Still the wine kept coming.

Kargan started to dance with his men, performing a strange jig with arms spread and fingers clicking together in time to the drums. Hopping from foot to foot, shifting around a circle formed with four others, he started to sing with such gusto that Aristocles wondered if the entire city behind the harbor could hear him. The four other dancers knew the words and formed a humming chorus like the chant of a priest.

Chloe was now seated on Aristocles’ left, and as the drums finally faded away Kargan again sat down heavily on his other side. Across from them Nilus’s head was nodding as he struggled to keep awake. The symposiums the consuls and merchants hosted often went late, but never was such a quantity of wine consumed.

‘Now,’ Kargan said. He turned his dark eyes on Aristocles. ‘I am asking you seriously. The sun king desires gold above all else. We have silver. How much do you want for the ark? Name your price.’

Aristocles stiffened and saw that Nilus was suddenly awake and scowling. He reminded himself that he was Phalesia’s first consul and tried not to appear offended.

‘It is not – and will never be – for sale,’ Aristocles said. ‘But if it’s gold you want, we have many fine jewelers—’

Kargan barked a laugh and clapped Aristocles so hard on the back that he spilled wine over his tunic. ‘I had to try.’ He turned his head from side to side and frowned. ‘Music! Where is the musician?’

‘He fell asleep, lord.’

‘Throw him overboard! The stars are still out!’

Kargan lurched as he stood up and then walked three steps to the rail, facing outward, then began to urinate noisily over the side.

‘Perhaps we should make our way—’ Nilus said.

‘This banquet is not over!’ Kargan rasped as he returned. He sank down again beside Aristocles. ‘I nearly forgot! Your daughter plays the flute, does she not? Did she bring her instrument as I asked?’

When Aristocles hesitated, Kargan barked at Chloe, ‘Play, girl.’ He waved his arms to the people nearby. ‘Quiet, all of you!’

Chloe unwrapped her flute and placed it to her lips. She commenced a bright melody often performed at feast days.

She had played for only a short while when Kargan put his hands over his ears and grimaced. ‘Enough! Save my senses!’