“How could such a huge ship be beached at night?” Helikaon asked finally. “And if beached, how could it be refloated again come daybreak?”
“It could not easily be fully beached,” Khalkeus admitted. “But that would not be necessary. Under most conditions it would be adequate to merely ground the prow, or the stern, on the beach and then use stone anchors and lines to hold her in place for the night. That would allow the crew to land and prepare their cookfires.”
“Most conditions?” Helikaon queried.
Here was the crux of the problem. Sudden storms could arrive with great speed, and most ships would flee for the shore. Being small and light, galleys could be hauled up onto the safety of the sand. A ship the size and weight of that planned by Khalkeus could not be pulled completely from the water when loaded with cargo.
Khalkeus explained the problem. “You would not want to half beach a ship of this size during a storm. The thrashing water at one end against the shingle or sand at the other would tear her apart.”
“How, then, would you run from a storm, Khalkeus?”
“You would not run, Helikaon. You would either ride the waves or seek shelter anchored in the lee of an island or an outcrop of rocks. The ship I propose would not fear storms.”
Helikaon had stared hard at him for a moment. Then he had relaxed and given a rare smile. “A ship to ride a storm. I like that. We will build her, Khalkeus.”
Khalkeus had been stunned—and suddenly frightened. He knew of the Golden One’s reputation. If the new ship proved a failure, Helikaon might kill him. On the other hand, if it was a success, Khalkeus would be wealthy again and could continue his experiments.
Khalkeus looked into the young man’s eyes. “It is said you can be cruel and deadly. It is said you chop the heads from those who offend you.”
Helikaon leaned forward. “It is also said that I am a demigod, born of Aphrodite, and that you are a madman or a fool. What does it matter what gossips say? Give me of your best, Khalkeus, and I will reward you whether what you do is succesful or not. All I ask of men who serve me is that they put their hearts into it. No more can be demanded.”
And so it had begun.
The wind picked up as the ship cleared the harbor, and Khalkeus felt the swell increase in power.
Once at sea the mast was raised, the crossbeam tied in place, and the sail released. A southerly breeze rippled the canvas. Khalkeus glanced up. A huge black horse, rearing defiantly, had been painted on the sail. The crewmen cheered as they saw it.
Khalkeus eased his way to the prow on unsteady legs.
Off to the port side a group of dolphins were leaping and diving, their sleek bodies glistening in the sunlight. Khalkeus looked up at the sky. Away to the north dark clouds were forming.
And the Xanthos cleaved the waves toward them.
II
Argurios of Mykene steadied himself on the shifting deck and glanced across at the stocky redheaded Khalkeus. Everyone said he was a madman. Argurios hoped that was not true. He dreamed of dying on a battlefield, cutting down his enemies and earning himself a place in the Elysian Fields. To dine in the golden hall fashioned by Hephaistos and sit alongside men such as Herakles, Ormenion, and the mighty Alektruon. His dreams did not include slipping below the waves in full battle armor. Yet if he had to die on this cursed boat, it was only fitting that as a Mykene warrior he would go to his death with his sword, helmet, and breastplate. So it was that he stood in the morning sunshine fully armed. He watched with interest as the crew moved smoothly about the deck, and he noted the racks of bows and quivers of arrows neatly stored below the rails. There were swords, too, and small, round bucklers. If the Xanthos was attacked, the sailors would transform themselves into fighting men within moments.
The Golden One left little to chance.
On the high curve of the prow was a device Argurios had not seen on any other ship, a wooden structure bolted to the deck in four places. It was a curious piece, seeming to have no purpose. A jutting section of timber rose from its center, topped by what appeared to be a basket. At first he had thought it would be used to load cargo, but on closer examination he realized that the basket could not be lowered over the side. The entire piece was a mystery, which he assumed he would solve during the long journey to Troy.
Argurios glanced toward the rear deck, where Helikaon stood at the great steering oar. It had been hard to believe that any man could have defeated Alektruon the swordsman. He was a legend among the Mykene, a giant of a man, fearless and mighty. Argurios was proud to have fought alongside him.
Yet the full horror of the day was well known. Argurios had heard the tale from the single survivor. The man had been brought back to Mykene on a cargo vessel and was taken before Agamemnon the king. The sailor had been in a pitiful state. The stump of his wrist still bled, and a bad odor was emanating from it. Skeletally thin, he had a bluish sheen to his lips and could hardly stand. It was obvious to all that he was dying. Agamemnon had a chair brought for him. The story he told was stark and simple.
The mighty Alektruon was dead, his crew massacred, the legendary Hydra set adrift, its sail and decks ablaze.
“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.
[Troy 01] - Lord of the Silver Bow Page 5