Lord of the Silver Bow (8 page)

Anchises leaned toward him, and Odysseus saw his eyes glitter in the firelight. “That thought is in my mind. I have another son now: Diomedes. He is everything Aeneas will never be. He is fearless and bright and born to be king. Now, should a tragedy occur while you are at sea, I will reward you richly in order that you might organize a suitable funeral. Do we understand each other?”

From a table at his side he took a cloth bundle and thrust it at Odysseus. The trader opened it and found a wondrous belt made of fine leather and gold rings, encrusted with amber and carnelian, and a curved dagger inlaid with ivory. He examined them critically. “This is a good piece,” he said grudgingly, drawing the dagger.

“And we have an understanding?” the king pressed.

“You want me to take your son and . . . make a man of him,” said Odysseus, enjoying the spasm of irritation that creased the king’s features. “In order to succeed he must, of course, risk many perils. Danger is the seed from which courage grows.”

“Exactly. Many perils,” the king agreed.

“I shall speak to the boy tomorrow.” Odysseus had returned to the
Penelope
with his booty and had thought long about the king’s request. The man wanted his own son murdered, and Odysseus loathed him for it.

Toward midnight he stripped off his tunic and jumped from the deck of the
Penelope
into the dark sea below. He swam across the moonlit bay, the cool water helping clear his mind. The vile king had dragged a sensitive child down to see the shattered corpse of his mother. Was it any wonder the boy’s heart was scarred?

Odysseus swam to a point below a high ledge on the cliff path. The water was deep, and there were few rocks. The swim had been enjoyable, but he was no nearer a decision when he returned to the
Penelope.

Dressed in an old threadbare tunic, he met Aeneas in the early morning in the flower garden at the side of the palace overlooking the sea. When Odysseus last had walked in the garden, it had been a riot of greenery, grown with much care and attention despite the ever-present winds and the salt air. Since then all effort to keep it flourishing had ceased, and the garden was the same as the rest of Anchises’ palace grounds, rock-strewn and barren.

Aeneas had grown a lot during those years, but he was now, at fifteen, still below average height, blue-eyed and slender. He wore a knee-length white tunic, and his long dark hair was bound back with a strip of leather. Odysseus noticed he kept far from the cliff edge and did not so much as glance at the
Penelope
in the bay far below.

“So, lad, we have much to catch up on,” the trader began. “Have you fulfilled your ambition yet?”

“What ambition is that, sir?” The youth turned ice-blue eyes on him, and Odysseus felt his blood run cold. Under the bland reflective surface of those eyes he sought for a spark of the bright child Aeneas had been.

“Why, to build the biggest ship in the world. Don’t you remember?”

“I was just a boy then. Children have strange ideas.” Aeneas turned away.

Odysseus’ anger, never far below the surface, rose again at the coldness in the young man’s voice.

“They tell me you’re frightened,” he said conversationally. “Frightened of heights. Well, that’s not unreasonable. Your mother threw herself off a cliff. You saw it. So you’re frightened of heights. I understand that.”

If he had hoped for a response from the youth, he was disappointed.

“But,” he added, “I hear you’re picky about your food like a little maiden. Frightened you’ll swallow a fish bone and choke, frightened you’ll eat bad shellfish and die. You won’t ride your horses anymore, frightened, I suppose, that you’ll fall off. You scarcely leave your room, I’m told.” He leaned in to Aeneas. “What sort of life are you living, boy? What do you do in your room all day? Embroidery—like a girl? Is that it? Are you a girl in disguise? Do you dream of the day some ugly man decides to stick his cock up your ass?”

And then he saw it for a fraction of a heartbeat: a glint in the eyes, the beginnings of anger. It was snuffed out instantly.

“Why do you insult me?” Aeneas asked.

“To make you angry. Why did you stifle it?”

“It serves no purpose. When we lose control, we . . .” He hesitated. “We make mistakes,” he concluded lamely.

“We throw ourselves from cliffs. Is that what you mean?”

The boy reddened. “Yes,” he said at last. “Though I ask you not to mention it again. It is painful to me still.”

Odysseus sighed. “Sometimes pain is necessary, lad. The gods gave me a great gift, you know, for reading the hearts of men. I only have to take one glance to know whether a man is a hero or a coward.”

“And you think me a coward,” said the youngster, anger once more seeking to take hold. “My father tells me daily. I am a milksop, a useless creature. I have no need to hear it from a foreign sailor. Now are we done?”

“You are none of those things. Listen to me! Five years ago we hit rocks on the
Penelope.
Her hull was breached, and she was shipping water. She rolled on the Great Green like a hog in a swamp. Her speed was gone, and she almost sank. We kept her afloat and made it to port. Then she was repaired. I didn’t judge her as a bad ship. She was damaged in a storm. I judge her by how she sails when her hull is sound. You are like that ship. Your heart was breached when your mother died. And from the heart comes courage.”

The boy said nothing, but Odysseus saw that he was listening intently.

Odysseus moved away from the cliff edge and sat down on a grassy bank. “There is no courage without fear, Aeneas. A man who rushes into battle fearlessly is not a hero. He is merely a strong man with a big sword. An act of courage requires the
overcoming
of fear.” Raising his hand, palm outward, he instructed the boy to do likewise. Then he reached out and pressed his palm to the boy’s. “Push against my hand,” he said. Aeneas did so. Odysseus resisted the push. “Now, this is how courage and fear work, lad. Both will always be pushing. They are never still.” Dropping his hand, he looked out over the sea. “And a man cannot choose to stop pushing. For if he backs away, the fear will come after him and push him back another step and then another. Men who give in to fear are like kings who trust in castles to keep out enemies rather than attacking them on open ground and scattering them. So the enemies camp around the castle, and now the king cannot get out. Slowly his food runs out, and he discovers the castle is not a very safe place to be. You built a castle in your mind. But fear seeped through gaps in the walls, and now there is nowhere else to hide. Deep down you know this, for the hero I see in you keeps telling you.”

“Perhaps there is no hero inside me. What if I am as my father tells me?”

“Oh, there is a hero, boy! You still hear his voice. Every time your father asks you to ride a horse or do some daring thing, the hero in you longs to obey him, yearns for a smile from him or a word of praise. Is that not so?”

The boy’s head dropped forward. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Good! That is a beginning. Now all you need to do is seek out that hero, boy, and embrace him. I can help you, for I know his name.”

“His name?”

“The hero inside you. You want to know his name so that you can call for him?”

“Yes,” answered Aeneas, and Odysseus saw the desperation in his eyes.

“His name is Helikaon.”

The boy’s face crumpled, and Odysseus saw tears begin to fall. “No one calls me that anymore,” he said. Then he angrily brushed the tears away. “Look at me! I cry like a child!”

“Damn, boy! Everyone cries at some time. I wept for weeks when my son died. Blubbed until I had no strength left. But we are losing the breeze here. You need to find Helikaon.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Why, you sally from the castle and scatter your fears. He will be there waiting for you.”

“Speak plainly, for there are no castles.”

Odysseus felt sympathy for the youngster, but he realized that the damage caused to him by years of abuse from his father could not be undone with a few fanciful notions. In truth, he thought, it will take years, and Odysseus did not have years to spend on a boy with a crippled heart.

Equally he could not take him on the
Penelope
and kill him no matter what riches Anchises dangled before him.

He decided on one last gambit. “If I asked you to dive from this cliff to the sea, a hundred feet or more below, you wouldn’t do it, would you?”

“No,” Aeneas replied, his eyes wide with fear even at the thought.

“Of course not. It is a long way down, and there may be hidden rocks there that would dash a man to pieces. Yet that is where Helikaon waits for you, lad. So I am going to give you a reason to make that dive.”

“Nothing will make me do that!” said Aeneas.

“Perhaps not. But I am going to jump from this cliff into the sea. I cannot swim, so if you do not come for me, I will drown.”

“You cannot do this!” Aeneas said, surging to his feet as Odysseus rose.

“Of course I can. Helikaon and I will be waiting, boy.” Then, without another word, he ran to the cliff edge.

Even now, so many years later, Odysseus felt a shiver run through him at the memory. He had looked up at this ledge the night before. It had not appeared
so
high. But as he reached it and looked down, it seemed to him that the sea was an awesome distance below him. The
Penelope
suddenly appeared to be a toy ship crewed by ant figures.

Though he would never admit it to anyone else, Odysseus was suddenly terrified.

“Please don’t do it!” shouted the boy.

“Have to, lad,” Odysseus answered. “When a man says a thing, he needs to find the nerve to follow through on it.”

Taking a deep breath, he flung himself out into the clear air. Cartwheeling his arms to stay upright, he plunged down, the drop seeming to take forever. Then he hit the sea with all the grace of a pig on a pond.

Rising agonizingly to the surface, his body awash with pain and his lungs on fire, Odysseus pretended to flounder, splashing his arms at the water. Glancing up, he saw the youngster standing high above him. He felt foolish now. There was no way a frightened boy could make that leap, and Odysseus felt he had only made matters worse for the lad. However, he had told him he could not swim and felt obliged to continue the charade for a little while. Letting out his breath, Odysseus sank below the surface, holding out for as long as he could. Then he came up, took several breaths—still splashing like a drowning man—and sank again. As he surfaced he looked up one last time.

He saw the sleek form of Aeneas high in the air above him, arms stretched out, his body framed against the brilliant blue of the sky. The dive was beautiful to behold—and Odysseus almost forgot his pretense. As Aeneas surfaced and swam toward him, Odysseus went down again. This time a strong young arm grasped his wrist, hauling him up.

“Take a deep breath,” ordered the youngster, who then dragged him back toward the
Penelope.
Ropes were thrown down, and the two climbed on board.

Standing dripping on the deck, puffing and blowing, Odysseus looked around at his amused crew.

“This is Helikaon, lads,” he cried, gesturing at the youth. “He is a prince of Dardania. He saved my life!”

The first mate, Bias, a heavily scarred dark-skinned man with grizzled hair, clapped Helikaon on the back. “I saw the dive. It was incredible. Well done, lad.”

Odysseus walked over to Helikaon, throwing a brawny arm around his shoulder. Then he leaned in. “How did it feel to make that dive?”

“I feel . . .” Helikaon struggled for words. “I don’t know how I feel.”

“Exultant?” offered Odysseus.

“Yes, that is it. Exactly.”

“You scattered your enemies, Helikaon. I cannot tell you how proud I am of you. You found the path to the hero. You will never lose it again.” Swinging toward the crew, he called out, “Oarsmen to your places and ready the sail. The Great Green awaits.”

“I don’t understand,” said Helikaon.

“Ah, lad, did I not tell you? Your father thought a sea voyage would be good for you, so now you are a member of my crew. I think you will enjoy it.”

Alone now on the beach, Odysseus smiled at the memory. He saw Helikaon rise to his feet and look around. Odysseus waved, and the Golden One walked over to him.

“Planning your next outrageous adventure?” Helikaon asked.

Odysseus grinned. “I was remembering the day I watched a young prince fly like an eagle over the sea.”

VIII

BLUE OWL BAY

I

Xander felt like one of the heroes of legend, the men his grandfather spoke of around the night fire before he and his sisters fell asleep. He had crossed the world to a foreign land, a place of enchantment and mystery where there were different stars shining. And he had met the legendary Odysseus. It was like a wonderful dream.

All along the Bay of Blue Owls Xander could see handcarts full of dried driftwood being hauled onto the beach. There was the smell of roasting meats, and the music of lyres and pipes could be heard around many of the fires. He saw the black-bearded Gyppto Gershom move away from the
Xanthos
men and sit down with his back to a rock. He had an old piece of cloth around his shoulders, and he was shivering. Xander ran to him. “Can I fetch you something?”

Gershom smiled. “More water would be good. My throat feels as if I have swallowed a desert.” Xander moved off and returned with a water skin. Gershom drank sparingly. Then he lay back on the sand and fell asleep.

Xander sat alongside him for a while as the night wore on. He stared up at the bright stars. He could not actually tell if they were different but guessed they had to be. When Gershom started to snore, Xander rose from the sand and began to explore. Along the shoreline there were scores of stalls and carts full of merchandise: jewelry, clothing, pots, jugs, protective amulets, and weapons. Elsewhere there were traders who had set out items on blankets in the sand. There were soothsayers and seers, astrologers and mystics, reading fortunes and making predictions. Everywhere Xander looked there was something exciting to see. He moved through the throng wide-eyed and full of wonder.

He gazed for a while at a display of dazzling jewelry: earrings, bracelets, and copper rings inset with colored stones. On the next stall were pots and cups, but they were of poor quality, not nearly as good as those his mother made. He pointed this out to the stallholder, an angry little man who swore at him. Xander danced away as the man threatened to cuff him. He was not frightened. Xander was a hero who had braved a storm, and he felt no fear of a pottery man.

He paused at a clothing stall. It was a jumble of sandals, cloaks, and thigh-length chiton tunics of hard-wearing linen. Hanging lanterns illuminated the wares. Xander reached out and lifted a small sandal.

“Five copper rings they should go for,” said a round-faced woman, with missing front teeth. “Yet I am feeling generosity tonight for those who passed through the storm. So I thought, four rings. However, I see how you look at them, little sailor, and it warms my heart. So for you I shall make them virtually a gift: a mere three copper rings.”

“I don’t have any copper rings,” he said.

“No rings,” she repeated, then leaned toward him. “But you are a pretty boy, and I know a man who would buy you those sandals if you were nice to him. Would you like to meet him?”

A giant figure moved alongside Xander. “No, he would not,” said Zidantas. He took the sandal from Xander’s hand and examined it. “It would bind to his foot in the first rain. He might as well wear sandals made of clay.”

The woman swore at Zidantas, who laughed. “Come away, Xander. If you need sandals, there is a stall on the far side with items of quality. But first let us eat.”

At a food stall they were each given a bowl of stew and a piece of flat-baked bread. Then Zidantas walked to a rocky section of the beach, away from the revelers, and sat down. They ate in silence. Xander had not realized how hungry he was. Finishing the stew and the bread, he rushed back to another stall, received two honey-baked pies, and took one to Zidantas.

The giant grinned. “I like them well enough, but they make my teeth ache. You eat them both.”

Xander needed no further urging and devoured them, finally licking the honey from his fingers. “This is a wonderful place,” he said.

Zidantas brushed crumbs from his forked beard. “Yes, it is a good bay, and the Fat King feeds sailors well.”

Xander glanced around and saw Helikaon some distance away, chatting and laughing with sailors from another ship. “The Golden One has many friends,” he said.

“Odysseus is a good friend to have,” replied Zidantas.

Xander saw soldiers in strange conical helmets and leather breastplates moving through the throng. They were carrying stout clubs.

“Is there going to be a fight?” he asked.

“There are usually one or two before the night ends,” Zidantas told him. “Unavoidable when you have strong drink, loose women, and several hundred sailors. The soldiers will stop them soon enough. They’ll crack a few skulls.”

“Will people be killed?”

Zidantas shrugged. “I’ve known some who died here. Skulls of clay. Mostly there’ll just be head pain and misery.”

Xander looked back at the group around Helikaon. “Why is Odysseus a good friend to have?” he asked.

Zidantas laughed. “Your mind flits like a butterfly, boy. You should get some sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow.”

“I am not tired, Zidantas, truly I’m not. And I don’t want to miss anything.” Close by he saw a seer examining a sailor’s hand and heard him making predictions about the man’s future wealth.

“How does he know all that?” he whispered.

“He doesn’t.”

“Then why are people giving him copper rings?”

Zidantas laughed. “Because they are idiots. Because they are gullible. Because they are sailors.”

“You are a sailor,” Xander pointed out.

“Yes, but I am an
old
sailor. And they could build palaces with the number of rings I have given to those who promised to read my future.”

“Can I ask another question?”

“You are like a ship with a cargo of questions. I have a daughter like you. Little Thea. Always wants to know answers. Where do the clouds come from? How does the rain get up into them? I come to sea to get away from that, lad.”

“Is that why you come to sea? Truly?”

Zidantas laughed. “No, I was jesting. I miss my girls, especially Thea. Always cries when I put to sea. She’ll be waiting on the beach with her mother when we sail back. She’ll skip and wave and run into the surf.” He chuckled. “All the ages of children are wonderful to behold, but five is the best, I think. Now, what was your question?”

“The sea is blue,” said Xander. “So why is it called the Great Green?”

“Now,
that
is a question every sailor asks when he first puts to sea. I asked it many times myself and was given many answers. When Poseidon became god of the sea, he changed its color because he preferred blue. Others say that out where the sea is deep and no ships sail, it shines like an emerald. A Gyppto merchant once told me the Great Green referred originally to a massive river in their lands: the Nile. It floods every year, ripping away vegetation. This is what turns it green. He said that when men first sailed upon it, they called it the Great Green, and the name came to mean all the water of the earth. The answer is that I don’t know. I like the sound of it, though. There is a majesty to it, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” agreed Xander. “It is a wonderful name.”

Zidantas’ smile faded, and Xander saw him looking at a group of six men some distance away. They were standing together and staring toward where Helikaon sat with Odysseus and his crew. The newcomers were clustered around a tall, broad-shouldered warrior. He looked a little like Argurios, with a jutting chin beard and no mustache. But this man’s beard and hair seemed almost white in the moonlight. As Xander watched, he saw the white-haired young warrior shake his head and then move away with his men. Beside the boy Zidantas relaxed.

“Who were they?” asked Xander.

“Mykene traders. Well, that’s what they call themselves. They are raiders, lad. Pirates.”

The curly-haired oarsman Oniacus moved across to where they sat. He smiled at Xander and ruffled his hair, then squatted down alongside Zidantas. “Kolanos is here,” he said.

“I know. We saw him.”

“Should I send some men back on board to fetch weapons?”

“No. I doubt Kolanos will want trouble in the Fat King’s bay.”

“The Golden One should sleep on the
Xanthos
tonight,” said Oniacus. “Kolanos may not seek an open fight but rely instead on a dagger in the dark. Have you warned Helikaon?”

“No need,” said Zidantas. “He will have seen them. And I will keep watch against assassins. Stay alert, though, Oniacus, and warn a few of the tougher men. Keep it from the others.”

Zidantas rose and stretched, and then he wandered off. Oniacus grinned at the now-nervous Xander.

“Don’t worry, little man. Zidantas knows what he’s doing.”

“Are those men our enemies?” Xander asked fearfully.

“In truth they are everyone’s enemies. They live for plunder. They rob, they steal, they kill. Then they brag about their courage and their bravery and their honor. But then, the Mykene are a strange race.”

“Argurios is a Mykene, and he saved my life,” said Xander.

“As I said, boy, they are a strange people. But that was a brave deed. You can’t say they lack courage. Everything else—charity, compassion, pity—but not courage.”

“Courage is important, though,” said Xander. “Everyone says so.”

“Of course it is,” Oniacus agreed. “But there are different kinds. The Mykene live for combat and the glory of war. I grieve for them. War is the enemy of civilization. We cannot grow through war, Xander. It drags us down, filling our hearts with hatred and thoughts of revenge.” He sighed. “Trade is the key. Every race has something to offer and something it needs to buy. And as we trade, we learn new skills from one another. Wait until you see Troy, then I’ll show you what I mean. Stonemasons from Egypte helped craft the great walls and the towers and the statues at the Scaean Gate; carpenters from Phrygia and Nysia fashioned the temple to Hermes, the god of travelers. Goldsmiths from Troy traveled to Egypte and taught other craftsmen how to create wondrous jewelry. And as the trade increased, so did the exchange of knowledge. Now we can build higher walls and stronger buildings, dig deeper wells, weave brighter cloths. We can irrigate fields and grow more crops to feed the hungry. All from trade. But war? There is nothing to be said for it, boy.”

“But war makes heroes,” argued Xander. “Herakles and Ormenion were warriors, and they have been made immortal. Father Zeus turned them into stars in the night sky.”

Oniacus scowled. “In a drunken rage Herakles clubbed his wife to death, and Ormenion sacrificed his youngest daughter in order that Poseidon might grant fair winds for his attack on Kretos.”

“I’m sorry, Oniacus. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

“You are just young, Xander. And I am not angry with you. I hope you never see what war makes men do. I hope that the current peace lasts all your lifetime. Because then we will see great things. All around the Great Green will be happy people, content and safe, raising families.” Then he sighed again. “But not while killers like Kolanos sail the waters. Not while kings like Agamemnon rule. And certainly not while youngsters admire butchers like Herakles and Ormenion.” He glanced back at the crowd around Helikaon. “I am going to have a word with a few of the lads. Don’t you say anything to anyone.”

With that Oniacus ruffled the boy’s hair again and moved off toward the
Xanthos’
crew.

Xander sighed. He did not want to be a hero now. There were evil men on this beach, murderers who used daggers in the dark. Rising to his feet, he followed Oniacus and sat down alongside some of the crew. They were chatting and laughing. Xander looked at them. They were big men and strong, and he felt more confident in their company. Xander stretched himself out on the sand, his head resting on his arm. He fell asleep almost instantly.

II

Had it not been for the two years she had spent on the isle of Thera, the flame-haired Andromache might have had no real understanding of just how boring life could be. She pondered this as she stood on the balcony of the pitiful royal palace overlooking the Bay of Blue Owls. She could not recall being bored as a child, playing in the gardens of her father’s fine palace in Thebe Under Plakos or running in the pastures in the shadows of the hills. Life then had seemed carefree.

Puberty had put paid to such simple pleasures, and she had been confined to the women’s quarters of the palace, behind high walls, under the stern gaze of elderly matrons. At first she had railed against the oppressive atmosphere, but she had succumbed at last to the languorous lack of pace and the calm, almost serene surroundings. Her three younger sisters eventually joined her there. Prettier than she, they had been dangled before prospective suitors to become breeding cows for the princes of neighboring realms, items to be traded for treaties or alliances. Andromache herself, tall and forbidding with her piercing green eyes—intimidating, according to her father—extinguishing any possible fire in the heart of a would-be husband, had been presented for service of another kind. Two years ago, when she was eighteen, her father had sent her to become a priestess on Thera.

It was not an act of piety. The temple required virgins of royal blood to perform the necessary rites, and kings received golden gifts for dispatching daughters to serve there. Andromache had been “sold” for two talents of silver: not as much as her father had received for the two daughters married into the Hittite royal line and considerably less than the sum promised for the youngest sister, the golden-haired Paleste, upon her wedding to the Trojan hero Hektor.

Still, Father had been pleased that this plain girl with the cold green eyes had proved of some service to the kingdom. Andromache recalled well the night he had told her of her fate. He had called her into his private chambers, and they had sat together on a gilded couch. Father had been out hunting that day; he stank of horse sweat, and there was dried blood on his hands. Never an attractive man even when bathed and dressed in silks, Ektion looked more like a goatherd than a king on this occasion. His clothes were travel-stained, his weak chin unshaved, his eyes red-rimmed from weariness. “You will travel to Thera and train as a priestess of the Minotaur,” said Ektion. “I know this task will be arduous, but you are a strong girl.” She had sat silently, staring at the ugly man. The silence had caused his temper to flare. “You have only yourself to blame. Many men prefer plain women. But you made no effort to please any of the suitors I found for you. Not a smile, not a word of encouragement.”