It occurred to Gershom then that somewhere along this coastline there was another crew, probably chanting the same words and speaking of the deaths of friends who had died attacking the Xanthos.
Easing his way through the crowded men at the rail, he moved to a place amidships and settled down on the deck. Lying back, he stared up at the stars.
Do the gods listen? he wondered. Do they care at all about the small lives of those who worship them? Does golden Osiris weep for our losses? Does Isis mourn with us? Or this Greek deity, Hades? Or Jehovah, the grim god of the desert slaves? Or fire-breathing Molech of the Assyrians?
Gershom doubted it.
XV
THE CITY OF DREAMS
I
Helikaon’s grief did not lessen as they turned about and sailed north along the coast. Rather, he could feel it swelling inside him, clawing at his heart. There were times when he felt he could not breathe for the weight of it. As the Xanthos cleaved the waves alongside Blue Owl Bay once more, the memories came back with increased sharpness and the loss of Zidantas threatened to overwhelm him.
The power of his grief was a shock to him. Zidantas had been a good friend and a loyal follower, but Helikaon had not realized how much he had come to rely on the man’s steadfastness and devotion. All his life Helikaon had been wary of intimacy, of allowing people to get close, of sharing inner thoughts and dreams and fears. Ox had never been intrusive, never pushed to know what he was feeling. Ox was safe.
Odysseus once had told him that a man could not hide from his fears but had to ride out and face them. He could not be like a king trapped within his fortress. Helikaon had understood. It had freed him to become the Golden One, a prince of the sea.
And yet, he knew, only a part of him had sallied out. The fortress was still there in his mind, and his soul remained within it.
What was it the old rower Spyros had said about children who suffer tragedy? They get heart-scarred. Helikaon understood that, too. When he was small his heart had been open. Then his mother, in a dress of gold and blue, a jeweled diadem upon her brow, had flung herself from the cliff top. The little boy had believed she was going to fly to Olympos and had watched in silent horror as her body plummeted to the rocks below. Then his father had dragged him down to the beach to gaze upon her broken beauty, her face shattered, one eye hanging clear. His father’s words remained carved in fire on his heart: “There she lies, the stupid bitch. Not a goddess. Just a corpse for the gulls to pick at.”
For a little while the child’s wounded heart had remained open as he sought to gain comfort from Anchises. But when he spoke of his feelings, he was silenced and shouted at for his weakness. He was first derided and then ignored. Maids and servants who treated him with kindness or love were said to be feeding his weakness and replaced by cold, hard harridans who had no patience with a grieving child. Eventually he learned to keep his feelings to himself.
Years later, under the guidance of Odysseus, he had learned to be a man, to laugh and joke with the crew, to work among them and share their lives—but always as an outsider looking in. He would listen as men spoke with feeling of their loved ones, their dreams, and their fears. In truth, he admired men who could do that, but had never found a way to open the fortress gates and take part himself. After a while it did not seem to matter. He had mastered the art of listening and the skills of conversation.
Odysseus, like Zidantas, never pressed him to express his feelings. Phaedra had, and he had seen the hurt in her eyes when he had evaded her questions, when had he closed the gates on her.
What he had not realized until now was that Ox had not been kept outside the fortress of his heart. Unnoticed, he had slipped inside to the deepest chambers. His murder had sundered the walls, leaving Helikaon exposed just as he had been all those years ago when his mother, in drugged despair, had ended her life on that cliff.
Adding to the pain was the fact that his mind kept playing tricks on him, refusing to accept that Ox was dead. Every so often during the day he would look around, seeking him. At night he would dream of seeing him and believe the dream was reality and reality the dream. Then he would awaken with a glad heart, only for the horror to wash over him like a black wave.
The sun was setting, and they needed to find somewhere to beach the Xanthos. Helikaon ordered the crew to keep rowing, seeking to put distance between himself and the awful memories of Blue Owl Bay.
The ship moved on more slowly now, for there were hidden rocks, and Oniacus placed men at the prow with sounding poles to call out instructions to the rowers. Helikaon summoned a crewman to take the steering oar and walked to the port side, where he stood staring out over the darkening sea.
“I will kill you, Kolanos,” he whispered. The words did nothing to lift his spirits. He had butchered fifty Mykene sailors, and that act of revenge had offered no relief for his pain. Would the death of Kolanos balance the loss of Ox?
A thousand men like Kolanos, he knew, could not replace a single Zidantas. Even if he slaughtered the entire Mykene nation, nothing would bring back his friend.
Once again the pressure grew in his chest, a physical pain beginning to swell in his stomach. He drew in slow, deep breaths, trying to push away the despair.
He thought of young Diomedes and his mother, Halysia. For a moment sunshine touched his anguished soul. Yes, he thought, I will find peace in Dardania. I will teach Diomedes to ride the golden horses. Helikaon had acquired a stallion and six mares from Thraki four years earlier, and they were breeding well. Strong-limbed and sleek, they were the most beautiful horses Helikaon had ever seen, their bodies pale gold, their manes and tails cloud-white. Their temperaments were sound: gentle and steady and unafraid. Yet when urged to the run they moved like the wind. Diomedes adored them and had spent many happy days with the foals.
Helikaon smiled at one memory. In that first season, four years earlier, eight-year-old Diomedes had been sitting on a paddock fence. One of the golden horses had approached him. Before anyone could stop him the boy had scrambled onto the beast’s back. The mare, panicked, had started to run and buck. Diomedes had been thrown through the air. He might have been hurt if Ox had not been close by. The big man had rushed in and caught the boy. Both had tumbled to the ground laughing.
The smile faded, and a stab of pain went through Helikaon, so sharp that he groaned.
The crewman Attalus was close by. He glanced over but said nothing.
Then Oniacus called out from the prow. Helikaon strolled to where the man was standing. Off to starboard there was a narrow bay. There were no ships beached there.
“Bring us in,” Helikaon ordered.
Later, on the beach, he wandered away from the fires and climbed up through a shallow wood to the top of the cliffs. There he sat, his thoughts whirling.
He heard movement behind him and surged to his feet. He saw Attalus moving through the trees, two bulging water skins hanging from his shoulders. The crewman paused.
“Found a stream,” he said. “You want water?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Helikaon took one of the skins and drank deeply. Attalus stood silently waiting. “You don’t say much,” Helikaon observed.
The man shrugged. “Not much to say.”
“A rare trait for a sailor.”
“Hot food is ready,” Attalus said. “You should come and eat.”
“I will in a while.” In that moment, in the quiet of the woods, Helikaon felt the urge to talk to this taciturn man, to share his thoughts and feelings. As always he did not. He merely stood quietly as Attalus strolled away with the water skins.
Helikaon remained on the cliff top for a while and then returned to the campfire. Taking a blanket, he lay down, resting his head on his arm. Muted conversations flowed around and over him.
As he lay there he pictured again the face of Andromache as he had seen her in the firelight. She, too, was heading for Troy. The thought that he might see her there lifted his spirits.
And he slept.<
br />
II
Xander was embarrassed. For the third time that morning he had been sick, vomiting over the side. His head throbbed, and his legs felt unsteady. The Penelope was much smaller than the Xanthos—just half her length and very cramped—so there was nowhere to go to hide his shame. The rowers’ benches were on the main deck, and once the ship was under oars, there was only a narrow passage between the ranks of oarsmen to walk from one end of the ship to the other. Unlike the gleaming new Xanthos, the oak planks of the deck looked worn and chipped, and some of the oars appeared to have been warped by the sun and the salt sea.
The mood was gloomy on the tiny foredeck, where he had been told to wait with the other passengers until they reached Troy. On the first day Xander had been excited at the prospect of sailing with the legendary Odysseus, but that excitement had passed swiftly, for there was little for him to do. He watched the land glide by and listened to the conversation of those around him. Andromache had been kind to him and had talked with him of his home and his family. Argurios had said nothing to him. In fact, he said little to anyone. He stood at the prow like a statue, staring out at the waves. The old shipwright Khalkeus was also gloomy and quiet.
Even the nights were somber. Odysseus told no tales, and the crewmen of the Penelope kept to themselves, gambling with dice bones or chatting quietly with friends. The passengers were left largely to their own devices. Andromache would often walk along the beaches with Odysseus, while Argurios sat alone. Khalkeus, too, seemed glum and low of spirit.
One night, as they sheltered from heavy rain under overhanging trees back from the beach, Xander found himself sitting with the shipwright. As always, the man seemed downcast. “Are you all right?” Xander asked.
“I am wet,” snapped Khalkeus. The silence grew. Then the older man let out a sigh. “I did not mean to sound so angry,” he said. “I am still suffering from the results of my actions. I have never had deaths on my conscience before.”
“You killed someone?”
“Yes. All those men on the galley.”
“You didn’t kill them, Khalkeus. You were on the beach with me.”
“How pleasant it would be if that simple statement were true. You will find, young Xander, that life is not so simple. I designed the fire hurlers and suggested to Helikaon that he should acquire nephthar. You see? I thought they would be a protection against pirates and reavers. It never occurred to me, stupid man that I am, that they could be instruments of murder. It should have. The truth is that every invention leads men to say: Can I use it to kill, to maim, to terrify? Did you know that bronze was first used to create plows, so that men could dig the earth more efficiently? It did not take long, I suspect, before it was used for swords and spears and arrowheads. It angered me when the Kypriots called the Xanthos the Death Ship. But what an apt name it proved to be.” He fell silent.
Xander did not want to talk about burning men and death, and so he, too, sat quietly as the rain fell.
By the twentieth day of the journey Xander thought he might die of boredom. Then the sickness had begun. He had woken that morning with a bad headache. His mouth was dry, his skin hot. He had tried to eat a little dried meat but had rushed away from the group to throw up on the sand.
The day was windless, and a thick bank of mist around the ship muffled the sounds of the oars and the creak of wood and leather. Time crawled by, and the Penelope seemed suspended in time and place.
Seated beside him, the old shipwright Khalkeus stared at his hands, turning and turning his old straw hat, mashing the battered brim, and occasionally muttering to himself in a language Xander did not understand. The lady Andromache was facing away from him, looking toward their destination.
An image flashed unwanted into the boy’s mind of the blazing ship, the sound of the screams, and the roar of the flames….
He dismissed the image and determinedly thought of his home and his mother and grandfather. Though the sun was obscured by mist, he guessed it was well after noon and imagined his grandfather sitting in the porch of his small white house, shaded by purple-flowering plants, eating his midday meal. The thought of food made his stomach twist.
Delving into his pack, he brought out two round pebbles. One was blue speckled with brown like a bird’s egg. The other was white and so translucent that he could almost see through it.
“Are you going to eat them, boy?”
Xander swung around to see Khalkeus gazing at him.
“Eat them? No, sir!”
“I saw you looking in your bag and thought you were hungry. When I saw the pebbles, I thought you might eat them. Like a chicken.”
“Chicken?” the boy repeated helplessly. “Do chickens eat pebbles?”
“They do indeed. It helps to grind the grain they eat. Like millstones in the granary of their bellies.” The old man bared his few remaining teeth, and Xander realized he was trying to be friendly.
The boy smiled back. “Thank you. I didn’t know that. I picked the pebbles up on the beach before I left home. My grandfather told me they are round and shiny because they have been in the sea for hundreds of years, rolling around.”
“Your grandfather was right. He is obviously a man of intelligence. Why did you choose those two? Were they different from the rest of the stones around them?”
“Yes. The rest were just gray and brown.”
“Ah, then these pebbles are travelers like you and me. They long ago left the seas where they were first made, and they have traveled the world. Now they mix with pebbles of a different sort and home is but a dim memory.”
Xander had no answer to that baffling comment, and so he changed the subject. “Are you going to live in Troy?” he asked.
“Yes. I shall purchase a forge and return to my true calling.”
“I thought you were a builder of ships.”
“Indeed, I am a man of many talents,” said Khalkeus, “but my heart yearns to work metal. Do you know how we make bronze?”
“No,” said Xander, and he did not want to. Bronze was bronze. It did not matter to Xander whether it was found in the ground, or grew from trees.
Khalkeus chuckled. “The young are too honest,” he said good-naturedly. “Everything shows in their faces.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small blue stone. Then he drew a knife of bronze from the sheath at his side. The blade gleamed in the sunlight. He held up the small stone. “From this,” he said, “comes this,” and he held up the knife.
“Bronze is a stone?”
“No, the stone contains copper. First we remove the copper, then we add another metal, tin. In exactly the right amount. Eventually we have a workable bronze. Sometimes—depending on the quality of the copper—we get poor bronze, brittle and useless. Sometimes it is too soft.” Khalkeus leaned in. “But I have a secret that helps make the best bronze in all the world. You want to know the secret?”
Xander’s interest was piqued. “Yes.”
“Bird shit.”
“No, really, I would!”
Khalkeus laughed. “No, boy, that is the secret. For some reason, if you add bird droppings to the process, the resulting bronze is hard but still supple enough to prevent it from shattering. That is how I made my first fortune. Through bird shit.”
The curious conversation came to an end when the lookout, high on the the crossbeam of the mast, suddenly cried out and pointed to the south. The boy jumped up eagerly and peered in the direction the man had indicated. He could see nothing except the endless bank of blue-gray mist.
Then he heard another shout and saw Odysseus gesturing to him from the aft deck. His heart lifted, and with wings on his feet he ran down the deck to where the trader waited.
“We’ll be on the beach at Troy shortly, lad,” Odysseus said. He was swigging mightily from a water skin, and liquid gushed down his chest. “I want you to stick with Bias. Once the rowers have stowed their oars, the mast will be dismantled, for we will remain in the city for a few days. Bias will show you how
we take down the mast and stow it safely. Then I want you to make sure the passengers have left none of their belongings on the Penelope.”
Xander was daunted by the trader’s stern manner. “Yes, sir.”
For the first time in days he felt anxious. He had never been to a city. He had never been anywhere larger than his own village until Bad Luck Bay. Where would he go once they reached Troy? Where would he stay? He wondered if he could remain on the Penelope. Surely someone would have to keep watch, he thought. “What do I do when we reach the city? It is said to be very big, and I do not know where to go.”
Odysseus frowned down at him. “Where do you go, lad? You’re a free man now. You’ll do what sailors do. Troy is rich in fleshpots and taverns, as in everything else. Now get about your duties.”
Crestfallen, Xander reluctantly turned away.
“Wait, boy,” said Odysseus. Xander swung back to see the ugly king smiling at him. “I am jesting. You’ll stay with us until we leave. If Helikaon hasn’t come by then, I’ll see you safely back in Kypros. As for seeing the city… well, you can come with me if you have a mind. I have much business to attend to and many people to visit. Perhaps you will even meet the king.”
“I should very much like to go with you, sir,” Xander said eagerly.
“Very well. Walk with Odysseus and you will breakfast with peasants and dine with kings.” He smiled. “Look, there she is,” he said. “The city of dreams.”
The boy peered ahead through the bank of mist but could still see nothing.
“Look up,” said Odysseus.
Xander looked up, and fear lanced through him. Far to port and high in the sky above the mist he could see what appeared to be flames of red and gold. He saw high towers and roofs gleaming with molten bronze.
“Is it on fire?” he asked fearfully, an image of the flaming ship again invading his head.
[Troy 01] - Lord of the Silver Bow Page 18