Lord of the Silver Bow (5 page)

“How did he die?” asked Agamemnon, his cold, hard eyes staring at the dying sailor.

Argurios remembered that the man had shivered suddenly as the harsh memories returned.

“We had boarded their vessel, and victory was ours. Then the Golden One attacked. He was like a demon. It was terrible. Terrible. He cut three men down, then tore at Alektruon. It was a short fight. He plunged his blade into Alektruon’s neck, then hacked his head from his body. We fought on for a while, but when it was hopeless, we threw down our weapons. Then the Golden One, his armor covered in blood, shouted, ‘Kill all but one!’ I saw his eyes then. He was insane. Possessed. Someone grabbed me and pinned my arms. Then all my comrades were hacked to death.”

The man fell silent.

“And then?” asked Agamemnon.

“Then I was dragged before Helikaon. He had removed his helmet and was standing there with Alektruon’s head in his hands. He was staring into the dead eyes. ‘You do not deserve to see the Fields of Elysia,’ he said. Then he stabbed the blade through Alektruon’s eyes.”

The warriors gathered in the Lion’s Hall had cried out in rage and despair as they heard this. Even the grim and normally expressionless Agamemnon gasped.

“He sent him blind into the Underworld?”

“Yes, my king. When the deed was done, he hurled the head over the side. Then he turned to me.” The man squeezed shut his eyes, as if trying to block the remembered scene.

“What did he say?”

“He said: ‘You will live to report what you have seen here, but you will be a raider no longer.’ Then, at his command, two men stretched my arm over the deck rail, and the Golden One hacked my hand away.”

The man had died two days after telling his story.

The defeat of Alektruon had tarnished the Mykene reputation for invincibility. His death had been a sore blow to the pride of all warriors. His funeral games had been muted and depressing. Argurios had gained no satisfaction there despite winning a gem-encrusted goblet in the javelin contest. There was an air of disbelief among the grieving fighting men. Alektruon’s exploits had been legendary. He had led raids from Samothraki in the north all the way down the eastern coast as far as Palestine. He had even sacked a village less than a day’s ride from Troy.

News of his defeat and death had been met with disbelief. Word had spread through the villages and towns, and people had gathered in meeting places and squares to discuss it. Argurios had the feeling that in the years to come all the Mykene would remember exactly what they were doing the moment they heard of Alektruon’s passing.

Argurios gazed with quiet hatred at the Golden One. Then he sent a silent prayer to Ares, the god of war: “May it fall to me to avenge Alektruon! May it be my sword that cuts the heart from this cursed Trojan!”

III

The wind stayed favorable, and the
Xanthos
sped across the waves. Slowly the green island of Kypros faded from sight. On the rear deck, alongside Helikaon, stood the powerful figure of Zidantas. At fifty he was the oldest man in the crew and had sailed those waters for close to thirty-five years. In all that time, through storms and gales, he had never been wrecked. Almost all his childhood friends had died. Some had drowned when their vessels foundered. Others had been murdered by pirates. Two had succumbed to the coughing sickness, and one had been killed over a lost goat. Zidantas knew he had been lucky.

Today he was wondering whether his luck was running out. The
Xanthos
had set sail just before midday, and though the friendly southerly wind was in their favor now, Zidantas was worried.

Usually a vessel from Kypros, traveling north, would leave no later than dawn, cross the narrowest section of open sea to the rocky coastline of Lykia, and then find a sheltered bay for the night. All sailors preferred to beach their vessels at dusk and sleep on dry land. The crew of the
Xanthos
was no exception. They were brave men and daring when circumstances demanded it, but all of them had lost friends or kinsmen to the capricious cruelty of the sea gods. They had waved goodbye to comrades setting sail on calm waters beneath a blue sky, never to be seen again in this life. Ferocious storms, treacherous coastlines, pirates, and rocky shoals all took their toll on the men who lived and worked on the Great Green.

Out of sight of land the crew grew silent. Many of the rowers emerged from the lower deck to stand at the rail and gaze out over the sea. There was little conversation. Like Khalkeus, they began to listen to the groaning of timbers and feel the movement of the ship beneath them. And they gazed with fearful eyes along the horizon, seeking any sign of anger in the skies.

Zidantas both shared and understood their fears. They had heard sailors from other vessels mocking this new ship and issuing dire warnings about the perils of sailing on it. The Death Ship they called her. Many of the older members of the crew could recall other large ships being built and sailing to their doom. Zidantas knew what they were thinking: The
Xanthos
feels fine now, but what will happen when Poseidon swims?

He gazed at the silent men and felt a sudden surge of pride. Zidantas never sailed with cowards. He could read a fighting man and had always cast his eye over a crew before joining it. These men were fearful of the unknown, but if a storm did break or pirates appeared, they would react with courage and skill, as they had on the
Ithaka
the day Alektruon had attacked.

The memory of that day haunted him still, and he sighed.

White gulls swooped overhead, wheeling and diving above the black horse sail. The wind picked up. Zidantas glanced at the sky. Sudden storms were notorious during the autumn months, and few trading ships ventured far once summer was over. “If the wind changes . . .” he said aloud.

“There was a storm two days ago,” Helikaon said. “Unlikely to be another so soon.”

“Unlikely—but not impossible,” Zidantas muttered.

“Take the oar, Ox,” Helikaon told him, stepping aside. “You’ll feel more at ease with the ship under your control.”

“I’d feel more at ease back home, sitting quietly in the sunshine,” grumbled Zidantas.

Helikaon shook his head. “With six young daughters around, when do you have the chance to sit
quietly
at home?”

Zidantas relaxed and gave a gap-toothed grin. “It’s never quiet,” he agreed as he glanced over the side, reading the swell of the sea. “She’s smoother than I thought she would be. I would have expected more roll.” Zidantas curled his massive arm over the steering oar. “I’d be happier, though, had we waited for tomorrow’s dawn. We have left no room for error. It tempts the gods.”

“You are a Hittite,” Helikaon replied. “You don’t believe in our gods.”

“I never said that!” Zidantas muttered, nervous now. “Maybe there are different gods in different lands. I have no wish to cause offense to any of them. Nor should you. Most especially when sailing a new ship.”

“True,” answered Helikaon, “but our gods are not quite as merciless as yours. Tell me, is it true that when a Hittite prince dies, they burn twenty of his soldiers along with him to guard him in the Underworld?”

“No, not anymore. It was an old custom,” Zidantas told him. “Though the Gypptos still bury slaves with their pharaohs, I understand.”

Helikaon shook his head. “What an arrogant species we are. Why should a slave or a soldier still serve a master after death? What possible incentive could there be?”

“I do not know,” Zidantas answered. “I never had a slave, and I am not a Hittite prince.”

Helikaon moved to the deck rail and glanced along the line of the ship. “You are right. She is moving well. I must ask Khalkeus about it. But first I will speak to our passengers.” Helikaon leapt down the three steps to the main deck and crossed to where the Mykene passengers were standing.

Even from his vantage point on the rear deck and unable to hear the conversation, Zidantas could tell the elder Mykene hated Helikaon. He stood stiffly, his right hand fingering the hilt of his short sword, his face impassive. Helikaon seemed oblivious to the man’s malevolence. Zidantas saw him chatting, apparently at ease. When at last Helikaon moved away, seeking out Khalkeus at the prow, the bearded Mykene stared after him with a look of anger.

Zidantas was worried. He had argued against the decision two days earlier when Helikaon had agreed to allow the Mykene to take passage to Troy. “Let them take the
Mirion,
” he had said. “I’ve been watching them overload her with copper. She’ll wallow like a drunken sow. They’ll either be sick the whole voyage or end up dining with Poseidon.”

“I built the
Xanthos
for cargo
and
passengers,” Helikaon had said. “And Argurios is an ambassador heading for Troy. It would be discourteous to refuse him passage.”

“Discourteous? We’ve sunk three Mykene galleys now. They hate you.”

“
Pirate
galleys,” Helikaon corrected. “And the Mykene hate almost everyone. It is their nature.” His blue eyes had grown paler, his expression hardening.

Zidantas knew that look well, and it always chilled his blood. It brought back memories of blood and death best left locked away in the deep vaults of the subconscious.

The
Xanthos
powered on. Zidantas leaned in to the steering oar. The ship felt good beneath his feet, and he began to wonder if indeed the Madman from Miletos might have been right. He fervently hoped so.

Just then he heard one of the crewmen shout: “Man in the water!”

Zidantas scanned the sea to starboard. At first he saw nothing in the vast emptiness. Then he caught sight of a length of driftwood sliding between the troughs of the waves.

A man was clinging to it.

V

THE MAN FROM THE SEA

I

Gershom no longer had any lasting sense of where he was or of the links between dreams and reality. The skin of his shoulders and arms had been blistered by the sun; his hands clenched the wood in a death grip he could no longer feel. Voices whispered in his mind, urging him to let go, to know peace. He ignored them.

Visions swam across his eyes: birds with wings of fire, a man carrying a staff that slithered in his hands, becoming a hooded serpent; a three-headed lion with a scaled body. Then he saw hundreds of young men cutting and crafting a great block of stone. One by one they laid their bodies against it. Slowly they sank into the stone as if it were water. At last all Gershom could see were hands with questing fingers seeking to escape the tomb of rock they had crafted. And the voices continued ceaselessly. One sounded like his grandfather, stern and unforgiving. Another was his mother, pleading with him to behave like a lord, not some drunken oaf. He tried to answer her, but his lips were cracked, his tongue nothing but a dried stick in his mouth. Then came the voice of his little brother, who had died the previous spring: “Be with me, kinsman. It is so lonely here.”

He might have given in then, but the driftwood tilted and his bloodshot eyes opened. He saw a black horse floating over the sea. After a while he felt something touch his body and opened his eyes. A powerful bald-headed man with a forked beard was floating alongside him. Gershom recognized him but could not remember from where.

“He is alive!” he heard the man shout. “Throw down a rope.” Then the man spoke to him. “You can let go now. You are safe.”

Gershom clung on. No dream voices were going to lure him to his death.

The driftwood thumped against the side of a ship. Gershom looked up at the bank of oars above him. Men were leaning out of the ports. A rope was tied around his waist, and he felt himself being lifted from the water.

“Let go of the wood,” said his bearded rescuer.

Now Gershom wanted to, but he could not. There was no feeling in his hands. The swimmer gently pried his fingers open. The rope tightened, and he was lifted from the sea and pulled over the deck rail, where he flopped to the timbers. He cried out as the raw sunburn on his back scraped against the wood, the cry tearing the dry tissue of his throat. A young man with black hair and startlingly blue eyes squatted down next to him. “Fetch some water,” he said.

Gershom was helped to a sitting position, and a cup was held to his mouth. At first his parched throat was unable to swallow. Each time he tried, he gagged.

“Slowly!” advised the blue-eyed man. “Hold it in your mouth. Allow it to trickle down.”

Swirling the liquid around in his mouth, he tried again. A small amount of cool water flowed down his throat. He had never tasted anything so sweet and fulfilling.

Then he passed out.

∗ ∗ ∗

When he awoke, he was lying under a makeshift tent erected near the prow. A freckle-faced youngster was sitting beside him. The boy saw his eyes open and stood and ran back along the deck. Moments later his rescuer ducked under the tent flap and sat beside him.

“We meet again, Gyppto. You are a lucky fellow. Had we not been delayed, we would certainly have missed you. I am Zidantas.”

“I . . . am . . . grateful. Thank . . . you.” Heaving himself to a sitting position, Gershom reached for the water jug. Only then did he see that his hands were bandaged.

“You cut yourself badly,” said Zidantas. “You’ll heal, though. Here, let me help.” So saying, he lifted the leather-covered jug. Gershom drank, this time a little more deeply. From where he sat he could see along the length of the ship and recognized it. His heart sank.

“Yes,” said the giant, reading his expression, “you are on the
Xanthos.
But I know the hearts of ships. This one is mighty. She is the queen of the sea—and she knows it.”

Gershom smiled, then winced as his lower lip split.

“You rest, fellow,” Zidantas told him. “Your strength will soon come back, and you can earn your passage as a crewman.”

“You . . . do . . . not know me,” said Gershom. “I am . . . no sailor.”

“Perhaps not. You have courage, though, and strength. And, by Hades, you sailed a piece of driftwood well enough.”

Gershom lay back. Zidantas spoke on, but his voice became a rhythmic murmur, and Gershom faded into a dreamless sleep.

II

Helikaon stood at the steering oar, adjusting his balance as the great ship cleaved the waves. The dolphins had returned, leaping and diving alongside the vessel, and he watched them for a while, his normally restless mind relaxed and at peace. Only at sea could he find this exhilarating sense of freedom.

On land there were so many tedious distractions. With more than fifty ships in his fleet there were constantly problems to solve: authorizations for repairs to galleys, reports to read from his captains, meetings with his senior scribes and treasurers, checking the tallies of cargo shipped against the goods or metals received in exchange. His lands needed supervision, and though he had good men marshaling his horse herds and patrolling his borders, there were still matters only he could resolve. His heart lifted as he thought of young Diomedes. His half brother was almost twelve now and within a few years would be able to take on real responsibility. The blond-haired boy had begged to be allowed to sail on the
Xanthos.
His mother had forbidden it.

“I am the king,” Diomedes had said. “People should obey me.”

“You
will
be king, and people
will
obey you,” Helikaon had told him. “But for now, little brother, we must
both
obey the queen.”

“It is not fair,” complained Diomedes. “You sailed with Odysseus on the
Penelope
when you were young.”

“I was three years older than you. However, the next time I see Odysseus, I will ask him if you can sail with him one day.”

“Would you do that? Oh, that would be wonderful. You would allow that, wouldn’t you, Mama?”

The slender, golden-haired queen, Halysia, gave Helikaon a look of affectionate reproach. “Yes,” she said. “If Odysseus will have you.”

“Oh, he will,” said Diomedes, “for I am just as brave as Helikaon.”

“Braver,” Helikaon told him. “When I was your age I was frightened of everything.”

“Even spiders?”

“Especially spiders.”

The boy sighed. “Oh, Helikaon, I wish I could come to Troy with you. I’d like to meet Great-Uncle Priam and Hektor. Is it true you are going to marry the beautiful Kreusa?”

“No, it is not true. And what would you know about beautiful women?”

“I know they are supposed to have big breasts and kiss men all the time. And Kreusa is beautiful, isn’t she? Pausanius says she is.”

“Yes, she is beautiful to look at. Her hair is dark and long, and she has a pretty smile.”

“Then why won’t you marry her? Great-Uncle Priam wants you to, doesn’t he? And Mother says it would be good for Dardania. And you said we both had to obey Mother.”

Helikaon shrugged and spread his hands. “All this is true, little brother. But your mother and I have an understanding. I will serve her loyally in all matters, but I have decided to marry only when I meet a woman I love.”

“Why can’t you do both?” asked the boy. “Pausanius has a wife and two mistresses. He says he loves them all.”

“Pausanius is a rascal,” said Helikaon.

Queen Halysia stepped in to rescue him from the boy’s questioning. “Helikaon can marry for love
because
he is not a king and does not have to consider the needs of the realm. But you, little man,
will
be a king, and if you are not a good boy, I shall choose a wife for you who is dull and cross-eyed and buck-toothed and bandy-legged.”

Diomedes laughed, the sound rich and full of life. “I shall choose my own wife,” he said, “and she will be beautiful. And she will adore me.”

Yes, she will, thought Helikaon. Diomedes would be a good-looking man, and his nature was sweet and considerate.

The wind was picking up, and Helikaon leaned in to the steering oar. His thoughts turned to Priam’s favorite daughter. Kreusa was, as he had told Diomedes, very beautiful. But she was also greedy and grasping, with eyes that shone only when they were reflecting gold.

But then, could she have been any different, he wondered, raised as she had been in a loveless palace by a father who considered nothing of worth except that which could be placed upon his scales?

Helikaon had no doubt that it was Priam who had ordered Kreusa to flatter and woo him. The lands of Dardania, directly north of Troy, had never been rich. There were no mines supplying mineral wealth in gold, copper, silver, or tin. But Dardania was fertile, and its grasslands fed horses of surprising strength and endurance. Corn was also plentiful. Helikaon’s growing wealth as a merchant prince also had financed the building of ports, allowing access to the trade goods of Egypte and all the lands to the south and west. Dardania was growing in wealth and therefore power. Of course Priam would seek an alliance with his northern neighbor. No doubt in a few years Priam would seek to marry one of his daughters to Diomedes. Helikaon smiled. Perhaps strange little Kassandra or gentle Laodike. The smile faded. Or even Kreusa. The thought of his little brother wed to such a creature was dispiriting.

Perhaps I am being unfair to her, he thought.

Priam had little time for most of the fifty children he had sired on his three wives and thirty concubines. Those he drew close had been forced to prove their value to him. His daughters were sold carelessly to foreign princes in exchange for alliances; his sons labored either in his treasuries or in the priesthood or the army. Of them all he lavished what passed for affection on only two: Kreusa and Hektor. His daughter understood the secrets of gathering wealth; Hektor was unbeatable on the battlefield. Both were assets that needed to be maintained.

It even seemed to amuse the old man that many of his children plotted his death, seeking to overthrow him. His spies would report on their movements, and then, just before they could act on their plans, he would have them arrested. In the last three years Priam had ordered the deaths of five of his sons.

Pushing aside thoughts of Priam, Helikaon gazed up at the sky. It was a cloudless brilliant blue, and the southerly breeze remained strong and true. Mostly, as summer ended, the prevailing winds were from the northwest, making the crossing a hard day’s work for the oarsmen. Not today. The
Xanthos,
sail billowing, cut through the waves, rising and falling with grace and power.

Helikaon saw Khalkeus pacing up and down the main deck, one hand holding his straw hat in place. Occasionally the pitch of the ship would cause him to stumble and grab for a deck rail. He was a landsman and completely out of place at sea. That made it all the more strange that he should have designed and built a ship of such beauty.

Up at the prow Zidantas left the makeshift tent where the shipwrecked man had been carried and made his way to the rear deck.

“Will he live?” Helikaon asked.

“Yes. Tough man. He’ll survive, but it’s not him I’m worried about.”

Helikaon looked the giant in the eye. “You are always worried about something, Ox. You are never happy unless there is a problem to grind your teeth over.”

“Probably true,” Zidantas admitted, “but there’s a storm coming.”

Helikaon swung to gaze back toward the south. Zidantas’ ability to read the weather bordered on the mystical. The southern sky was still clear, and at first Helikaon thought the Ox might at last be wrong. Then he concentrated on the line of the horizon behind them. It was no longer clean and sharp, signaling rough water. He glanced at the black horse sail. The wind was still fresh and favorable, but it was beginning to gust. “How long?” he asked.

Zidantas shrugged. “We’ll see it before we see land, and it will be upon us before we beach.”

The stocky figure of Khalkeus came marching toward them, head down. He climbed the three steps to the rear deck. “I have been thinking about what you said,” he told Helikaon. “I think the fins may be the answer. As you know—”

“Fins?” queried Zidantas.

The shipwright stared at him coldly. “Interruptions are irritating. They disturb the flow of my thoughts. Kindly wait until I have finished.” He leaned forward for extra emphasis, but his hat flopped down over his eyes. Angrily he wrenched it from his head and swung back toward Helikaon. “As I was saying, you know I had deep planking bolted to the hull, fore and aft, to help keep the ship upright when beached.”

“A sound idea,” said Helikaon.

“Indeed so. However, it is serving a separate and wholly beneficial purpose while at sea. The jut of the fins is countering the shallow draft. I should have realized it when I was designing them. I might have extended them farther. They should also make it easier for the steersman. It is my understanding you have to aim the boat at a point above—or below, depending on the current and the wind—the point at which you wish to beach. My feeling is the boat will sail straighter with less drift. Very pleasing.”

“Well, let’s hope they also add some speed,” said Zidantas. “There is a storm coming up behind us. It would be nice to beach before it hits.”

“Oh, you can’t do that,” said Khalkeus.

“We can’t beach?”

“Of course you could. But then the storm you speak of would wreck the
Xanthos.
”

“It can’t wreck us on land!”

Helikaon cut in. “What Khalkeus is saying, Ox, is that we cannot
fully
beach the
Xanthos.
She is too large. We don’t have the men to haul her completely out of the sea, and if we did, we couldn’t float her again.”

“Exactly!” said the shipwright.

“Surely we can get enough of her on the sand,” insisted Zidantas.

“If the storm is a violent one, the ship would break up,” said Helikaon. “Half on solid ground, half being thrashed around on the water. The stresses would crack the hull.”

“Then what
do
we do?” asked Zidantas.