by David
He had been an oarsman on a cargo ship overloaded with copper oxhide ingots. It had broken up in what sailors called a blow. Gershom had been the only survivor. He did not allow himself often to dwell on those dreadful days after the wreck, but he was feeling ill at ease on this voyage.
Gershom glanced back to where the passengers were standing on the rear deck. Andromache was gazing out at the barren islands, but the dark-haired, moon-touched girl was staring at him again. He found her gaze unsettling.
Helikaon joined him at the prow. “We’ll find a secluded bay,” he said, “and put out scouts.”
“You think we could be attacked this close to Trojan waters?”
“Probably not, but then, I expect Dios felt safe in a Trojan marketplace.”
Gershom fell silent for a moment. The assassination two days earlier had shocked them all, especially when, under torture, the killer’s son had admitted they were seeking to kill Helikaon. His father’s poor eyesight had led him to attack Dios. Gershom looked at his friend, seeing the hurt in his eyes. “In Egypte,” he said, “the priests say a man’s life is calculated in a celestial sand measure. When the sand runs out, his life ends.”
“We do not hold to that belief,” Helikaon replied. “I wish it had been me in that marketplace.”
“You would prefer to be dead?”
Helikaon shook his head. “I wouldn’t be dead. I would never have walked among the crowds unarmed, and I do not believe a fat merchant would have been fast enough to surprise me.”
Gershom smiled. “Karpophorus surprised you, my friend. But yes, you are a tougher man than Dios ever was. Even so, you are not invulnerable. Do not let arrogance blind you to that fact.”
Helikaon took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I know what you say is true, Gershom. And I did like that fat merchant, so perhaps he would have gotten close to me. We will never know.”
“Was the son executed?”
“Not yet. The other boy was discovered hiding in a warehouse. They are both to die tomorrow. Priam has decided they will burn alive on Dios’ funeral pyre and serve him on the Dark Road.”
“They deserve no less,” Gershom commented. He flicked a glance to the rear deck and cursed softly. “Why does she keep staring at me?”
Helikaon laughed. “She is barely more than a child. Why does she bother you so?”
“I have never been comfortable around the insane. They are so… unpredictable. I saw her in Troy after we docked. She told me that my head was full of mist and that one day I would see clearly. Her words have been going around and around inside my head. What do they mean?”
Helikaon put his hand on Gershom’s shoulder and leaned in close. “One moment you say she is insane, the next you look for meaning in her words? Is that not itself a sign of madness?”
Gershom grunted. “And that is why I am uncomfortable around them. I fear their afflictions can be transmitted like the plague. If I stand too close, I will begin howling at the moon.”
“She is not insane, my friend. Cursed would be more accurate. As a babe she was struck down with the brain fire. Most infants die when afflicted with it, but she recovered. From that moment she was fey.”
“Could she be a true seer?”
Helikaon shrugged. “Kassandra once told me that she and Hektor and I would live forever. Later she said that she would die high in the sky, sitting upon a rock, and that three kings would take to the clouds with her. Does either sound like genuine prophecy to you?”
As Helikaon spoke, the clouds suddenly cleared and brilliant sunlight sparkled upon the sea. Islands of dull gray and brown rock instantly were transformed into shining silver and red gold. Light from the setting sun shone brightly on the undersides of the rain clouds, turning them to glistening coral. Gershom gazed in awestruck wonder at the glory of the sunset.
“Have you ever seen such beauty?” Helikaon whispered.
Gershom was about to agree, when he saw that Helikaon was staring toward the rear of the ship. Gershom turned and saw Andromache, framed in golden light, her yellow dress shimmering as if formed from molten gold. She was smiling and pointing out to sea. Gershom swung his gaze to starboard and saw a dolphin rise from the water, then dive deep.
“It is Cavala,” he heard Kassandra call out happily.
The girl ran to the starboard rail and called out.
The dolphin gave a high-pitched cry, as if answering her, then leaped high into the air, spinning as it rose. Drops of water sprayed from its body, the bright sunlight turning them to diamonds.
It swam alongside the ship for a while, occasionally leaping and diving, but when the Xanthos swung toward a protected bay, it gave a last cry and then disappeared toward the west.
Gershom saw that the dark-haired girl once more was looking at him. She looked so sad, and Gershom was suddenly sorry for her. He lifted his hand and waved at her.
She answered him with a smile, then turned away.
The moon was high and the night cold as Helikaon, wrapped in a heavy coat of dark wool, climbed to the top of the cliffs overlooking the southern sea. Most of the crewmen were sleeping on the beach below, huddled together for warmth. Others, much to the annoyance of the cooks, were crouched close around the early breakfast fires burning on the sand.
It would get much colder yet, Helikaon knew. There would be ice and snow in the Seven Hills and sleet storms along the way. Squatting down away from the wind, he stared out to sea, picturing the route along the coast and then through the Great Circle to Thera. With luck they would encounter no war fleets this late in the year, and few pirate captains would have the nerve to attack the Xanthos.
No, the dangers would come farther west and on the journey home. He sighed and corrected himself. Dangers from the sea, anyway. His thoughts darkened as he recalled the merchant Plouteus. A good, honest man and a shrewd trader. Helikaon never would have considered him a threat, and Gershom was right: The fat merchant would have gotten close enough to make a mortal strike. How many others had been approached, hired, threatened, or suborned? Were there men on this ship waiting for the opportunity to kill him?
He thought again of the merchant’s son Perdiccas. He had been babbling and begging by the time Helikaon had arrived in the cells. One of his eyes had been burned out, and he was bleeding from a score of shallow wounds. The torturers were weary and disgusted with the lack of information. At first they had thought the lad was showing great bravery, but then they had discovered he actually knew nothing and they had been wasting their time and their skills.
Helikaon knelt beside the weeping Perdiccas. “Do you remember me?” he asked softly.
“I do… I am so sorry, lord. So sorry.”
“Why was the attack so hurried? You could have come to my home or waited for nightfall. Why in bright daylight?”
“Father was told you were sailing south either that day or the next. There was no time for planning.” He burst into tears again. “Please forgive me, Helikaon.”
“I forgive you. You stood by your father. What else could you do?”
“Will the torture end now?
“I think that it will.”
“Thank the gods.”
Helikaon had left him then, climbing away from the stench of the dungeons and out into bright sunlight. Perdiccas would not be thanking the gods when they dragged him out and threw him, bound and gagged, onto the funeral pyre of the man he had murdered.
He thought over what the doomed young man had told him. The Mykene had known he was sailing south. Did that mean there was a traitor on board the Xanthos or within Priam’s inner circle? Or could it simply be a sailor bragging to a whore about his coming travels and the whore passing on the information to a Mykene spy?
If it was the latter, there was no harm done. No one on the crew knew their destination, only that they were heading south. If, however, there was a traitor within the palace, the enemy would know he was heading for Thera.
The wind dropped. The eastern sky wa
s growing paler now, the dawn approaching. In that moment Helikaon heard the sound of furtive movement. Stepping swiftly to his left, he drew his sword and spun.
A few paces away a shaggy goat rose on its hind legs and leaped for the shelter of the rocks. Helikaon smiled, sheathed his sword, and made his way back along the cliff top. He paused to gaze down on the Xanthos, his thoughts a mixture of joy and regret. She was the ship of his dreams, and he still remembered everything about the first day of her voyage, from the clumsy crewmen who dropped an amphora of wine to the sudden wind that blew Khalkeus’ hat over the side. What a day that had been! The crewmen were terrified of sailing the Death Ship. Even Zidantas, who always claimed to fear nothing, was ashen when the storm struck.
Zidantas!
Murdered and beheaded by the Mykene. As Dios had been murdered, and Pausanius, and Argurios and Laodike. And little Dio and his mother, Halysia.
The memories were painful, but there was no anger in him as he stood in the pale light of the predawn. It was as if the ghosts of the past were floating around him, offering silent comfort and continued friendship. “You are growing maudlin,” he warned himself aloud. “The dead are gone, and you are alone here.”
Even so he felt calmer than he had for a long, long time.
On the beach men were stirring, heaping wood on the fires, seeking to banish the cold of the night. Helikaon saw Andromache rise from her blankets. His heartbeat quickened as he remembered the kiss they had shared on the night of battle in the megaron. Angrily he tore his gaze from her. Do not think of that night, he warned himself.
Movement out to sea caught his eye. The crews of two small fishing boats were casting weighted nets in the waters beyond the bay. Helikaon watched them for a while. The boats were old, probably built in the days when the grandfathers of the fishermen were young men, full of hopes and dreams.
Wars come and go, he thought, but there will always be fishermen.
Strolling down the cliff path, he leaped to the sand and made his way to a cookfire. A sailor ladled broth into a wooden bowl and passed it to him. Helikaon thanked him, took a hunk of bread, and walked farther along the beach.
Sitting on a rock, he slowly ate his breakfast. Kassandra came strolling toward him, her cloak trailing in the sand. “I am looking for your friend,” she said. “Where is he?”
After a moment Helikaon realized she meant the goat. “Perhaps he is hiding.”
“Why would he hide?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.
“I think you frighten him,” he joked.
“Yes, I do,” she answered seriously. “I can’t help that. Can I finish your bread?”
“Of course you can. But there is more bread and good broth at the cookfire.”
“Yours will taste better,” she told him. “Other people’s food always does.”
Removing her cloak, she laid it on the sand like a blanket and sat down. As Helikaon watched her eat, he was touched by sadness. For all her father’s wealth and her own intelligence and beauty, Kassandra was forever lonely, locked in a world of imagined ghosts and demons. Will they truly care for her on Thera? he wondered. Will she find happiness there?
The dark-haired princess finished the bread in silence, shook the sand from her cloak, and swirled it around her shoulders. Stepping in, she kissed Helikaon on the cheek. “Thank you for the bread,” she said, then spun and ran down the beach toward the ship.
For three days the Xanthos sailed on, untroubled by bad weather or enemy ships. On the fourth day three Kretan galleys gave chase, but with the wind at her back the Xanthos raced clear of them. It was some days later before the first heavy rain of the voyage arrived. The sea began to surge, the wind picked up, and storm clouds gathered overhead. Then, with a clap of thunder, the heavens opened.
Andromache and Kassandra took refuge in the tent prepared for them on the forward deck, but a fierce gust of wind tore through the canvas. With the ship tossing and sliding, Andromache hooked her arm through a safety rope and drew Kassandra to her.
She heard Helikaon shouting out orders to the oarsmen, his voice firm. Crewmen ran to furl the black horse sail, straining at the ropes. Twisting around, Andromache glanced back, seeking Helikaon. He was standing on the rear deck, gripping the rail, his long dark hair streaming out in the storm wind like a banner.
Lightning flashed overhead, and the rain lashed down. Kassandra cried out, though not in fear. Andromache saw that her eyes were shining with excitement. A huge wave burst over the prow, a wall of water striking the two women. Kassandra was torn free of Andromache’s grip. Landing on her back, she struggled to rise. The prow of the Xanthos was lifted by another wave. Kassandra fell back heavily, her body spinning down the rain-swept deck.
From his position on the seat by the mast Gershom saw the girl fall. There was little danger of her being swept overboard, but spinning as she was, he feared she would crack her skull against a rowing bench. A child as frail as Kassandra easily could break her neck in such an accident.
With the ship being tossed like driftwood, Gershom knew there was no way to reach her on foot. Releasing his hold on the safety rope, he flung himself to the deck and dived toward the girl. Kassandra cannoned into him. Gershom threw his arm around her waist, drawing her to him. The Xanthos pitched again, hurling them both against the mast. Gershom managed to twist his body to take the impact on his shoulder. Grunting with pain, he threw out an arm. His hand struck something hard, and his fingers closed around it. It was the base of the circular seat constructed around the mast. Rolling to his knees, he lifted Kassandra to the seat. “Take hold of a rope,” he ordered her. Kassandra did so, and Gershom hauled himself to the seat alongside her.
The weather worsened, the rain becoming torrential. Gershom could see the rowers straining at their oars and heard Helikaon shouting more orders to them. Glancing to port, Gershom saw the outline of a rocky outcrop. Slowly, battling against the wind, the Xanthos moved behind the shelter of the headland.
Protected from the worst of the wind by high cliffs, the Xanthos steadied. Helikaon ordered the oars shipped and the anchors lowered. The rowers stood up from their benches, stretching their muscles and walking the deck.
After a while the rain eased, and patches of blue could be seen in the sky. Gershom glanced down at the dark-haired girl snuggled against him. “You are safe now,” he told her, hoping she would move away.
“I was always safe,” she replied, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Foolish girl! Your neck could have been snapped like a twig.”
She laughed then. “I am not intended to die on this boat.”
“That’s right. Helikaon tells me you are going to live forever.”
She nodded and smiled. “So will you.”
“That is a thought to cherish. I have never liked the idea of dying.”
“Oh, you will die,” she said. “Everyone dies.”
Gershom felt his irritation rise and tried to quell it. The girl was, after all, moon-touched. Yet the question had to be asked. “How can I both live forever and die?” he asked.
“Our names will live forever.” She frowned and cocked her head to one side. “Yes, yes,” she said. “‘Forever’ is inaccurate. There will come a day when there is no one left to remember. But that is so, so far away, it might as well be forever.”
Gershom asked, “If I am dead, why would I care that my name is known by strangers?”
“I did not say you would care,” she pointed out. “Do you know where we are?”
“Inside the Great Circle. Helikaon says we will soon reach Thera.”
Kassandra pointed to the headland. “That is the isle of Delos, the center of the circle. It is a holy site. Many believe Apollo and Artemis were born there.”
“But not you?”
She shook her head. “The sun and the moon did not grow like flowers upon the sea. But Delos is a holy site. There is strong power there. I can feel it.”
“What kind of power?”
“The kind that speaks to the heart,” she told him. “You have experienced it, Gershom. I know that you have.” Kassandra smiled. “Tonight I shall build a prayer fire, and you will sit with me under starlight. Then you will begin to know.”
Gershom pushed himself to his feet. “You can build your fire where you like, Princess, but I will not be sitting there. I have no wish to see what you see. I just want to live, to draw in breath, and to drink sweet wine. I want to take a wife and raise sons and daughters. I do not care about my name living forever.”
With that he walked away from her, striding toward the rear deck.
It was late in the afternoon before the storm completely cleared. Helikaon glanced at the red-streaked sky. The winter sun was falling rapidly, and soon it would be dark. “Rowers to your positions,” he called out. The men hurried to their benches, unlashed the oars, and ran them out. Oniacus sent teams fore and aft to raise the anchors. Then he climbed to the rear deck and took up his position at the steering oar.
“South,” Helikaon told him.
“At the call of three,” Oniacus shouted to the rowers. “One—ready! Two—brace! Three—and PULL!” Eighty oars sliced into the water, and the Xanthos surged away from the small island and out toward open water. “And… pull! And… pull! And… pull!”
Oniacus continued to sound the rhythm for a while. Then, with the oarsmen rowing in perfect unison, he let his voice fade away.
As they cleared the headland, Helikaon saw several fishing boats in the distance but no sign of enemy warships. The wind was favorable, and six sailors were standing alongside the mast, ready to raise the yard and unfurl the sail. The men looked to Helikaon, but he shook his head. “Not yet. Stand easy,” he called out. Walking to the port side, he stared down at the two banks of oars. They were rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Then he moved to starboard and studied the movement.