Suddenly there was air to breathe again, and he quickly took a breath, ready to plunge deep again. But he realized they no longer were underwater. The ship had crested the great wave.
For a instant he feared that he was falling, that the ship was plummeting into a deep trough behind the wave. But looking ahead, he realized there was no hideous drop, only a gentle slope. It was as if the great-hearted Xanthos had climbed a giant step in the sea. Helikaon leaned over and vomited up a stomachful of seawater.
He looked along the deck. Nearly half the rowing benches were empty, the oarsmen claimed by Poseidon. Many of the men were hanging, drowned or unconscious, from the ropes tying them to the benches. The mast had been ripped away, as had most of the rails and many of the oars.
Oniacus lay on the deck beside him, half-drowned, one arm hideously dislocated from its socket. Helikaon started to untie his ropes, dread in his heart. He had to find Andromache and the boys. If he had nearly drowned on the top deck, how could anyone still be alive lower down in the ship?
He felt a hand on his arm. Gray-faced with pain and shock, Oniacus had pulled himself up; he put out his good hand to stop Helikaon from untying himself. He pointed ahead of them, terror in his eyes.
“There’s another one coming!” he cried.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DAWN OF A NEW DAY
The man who once had been called Gershom stood in the darkness that lay over Egypte and gazed toward the north.
Patience was a skill he had learned only recently. As a young man he had needed only such patience as was required by a royal prince accustomed to every whim being instantly obeyed, that is, none at all. Then had come the day when, in drunken anger, he had killed two royal guardsmen. He had had the choice of being blinded and buried alive or fleeing the country of Egypte. He fled. As a fugitive, working in the copper mines of Kypros, he again had little use for patience. He worked until exhausted, then slept, then worked again.
Then he had fallen in with the sea people, roving traders, pirates, and raiders from the far northern fastnesses of the Great Green. He seldom thought of those days now, of his time with Helikaon on the great galley Xanthos, of his good friend Oniacus, of Xander, and of the people of Troy he had known for a few brief years. Word had reached him of the armies besieging the city of Troy; only in recent days had he heard of the death of Hektor, and he grieved for a man he hardly knew. He wondered at the fortunes of Andromache and her son and hoped that she was with Helikaon and was happy.
The affliction that had fallen on Egypte two days before had come out of the north: great waves that had devastated the land and a dark cloud of ash that had rolled across the sky, bringing perpetual night. The waves had swept up the river Nile, overflowing its low banks, destroying crops, demolishing homes, and drowning thousands. Then, from out of the river, polluted by ashfall and turned to the color of blood by the violent churning of the red Nile mud, had come millions of frogs and clouds of flying, biting insects. The frogs had invaded homes and crawled and hopped through meager food supplies. The insects had filled the air so that it was hard to breathe without sucking them in. They bit any exposed skin, spreading sickness throughout the land.
Standing on a rooftop in the darkness, the prophet heard a sound behind him. He turned to find hawk-faced Yeshua. “The sun will not rise again today,” his friend said with certainty. “The people are crying out to you to save them. They believe you have caused this catastrophe.”
“Why would they think that?”
“You asked the pharaoh to free the desert people from their slavery. He refused. Then the sun disappeared and the waves came. The Egypteians believe our god, the one god, is stronger than their own deities, and he is punishing them.”
“But does the pharaoh believe that?”
“He’s your brother. What do you think?”
Ahmose had gone to see the pharaoh, his half brother Rameses, risking bringing on himself the brutal punishment he long had escaped, and asked the ruler to allow the desert slaves to leave the land of Egypte. Rameses had refused. Seated on his high gold-encrusted throne, his beloved son beside him, Rameses had laughed at him for his naïvete.
“For the sake of our childhood friendship,” he had said, “I will not have you killed this time. But do not presume on that friendship further. Did you really expect me to wave my hand and release the slaves just because you, a known criminal, asked me to?”
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 t
he 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.
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