Nikolas ignored the question, frowning. ‘Are you taking your bow with you?’
‘Of course,’ Dion said.
‘Then throw it in the sea,’ Nikolas said. He brought his hand from around his back and held out a large leather-wrapped packet, twice the length of his arm.
Taking it in both hands, Dion unraveled a corner of the cloth. When he revealed a length of polished wood he gasped. Unable to stop himself, he let the rest of the cover fall to the ground as he examined a length of curved wood. The composite bow was strung and ready to use, the workmanship finer than anything he’d seen before.
‘It’s your new bow.’ Nikolas beamed.
‘This is for me?’
‘Father and I were having it made for your birthday, but we thought it better to give it to you now. The future is uncertain, and you never know when you’ll be in need of a good weapon.’
Dion examined it with both hands. It was sleek, made of alternating pieces of wood and horn, expertly spliced with the connections so tight they felt completely smooth when he ran his fingers along the bow’s length. It curved back on itself at both ends and was as long as a tall man’s stride.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Dion said, testing the draw. He had never owned anything so costly, nor held a bow so well made.
‘I told the bowyer you spend a lot of time at sea and he took that into account in the construction. The string is silk – he said sinew or hide wouldn’t deal well with the moisture. The different pieces are glued with gelatin from Sarsica and bound with deer gut.’
‘Nikolas . . . How can I thank—?’
‘I hope it serves you well,’ Markos said. The old king had been frowning as he watched the exchange, and now he spoke for the first time. ‘You’re fortunate your brother is persuasive, Dion, for it cost as much as a set of armor.’ He harrumphed. ‘You have the offering for the Oracle at Athos?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘If you end up crossing the sea, whatever you do,’ Thea said, ‘don’t go near Cinder Fen. And remember, we want peace with the sun king.’
‘Peace isn’t always possible,’ King Markos said.
Casting his eyes back down to the shore, Dion saw that his crew was inside the large sailing vessel and waiting, with the youth Riko waist deep in water as he held the bobbing ship, fighting the tossing back and forth of the waves.
‘I’d best go,’ Dion said to them all.
His mother embraced him again, and then, unstringing the bow and sheathing the weapon in its leather cover, he said goodbye to the assembled group.
He sensed their eyes on his back as he walked to the water and waded in, handing the packet up to Cob and then throwing his body over the gunwale to jump inside. The sail went up and the oars started moving in their slots.
Finally looking back at the bank, he saw that his father, brother, and Helena had left, with his mother the only one still waiting to see him go. He waved at her one last time, and wondered when he would next see her again.
Then Cob asked Dion if he wanted to take a turn at the tiller, and he forgot all about his family as the fresh wind sent a mist of spray against his cheeks.
The odor of stale sweat and salt-soaked timber overwhelmed Chloe’s senses. She lay awkwardly with her ankles tied tightly with twine, her wrists behind her back, and a gag in her mouth. She had been stuffed below decks on the Nexotardis among the jugs and amphorae, water skins and sacks. Prone on a platform close to the bow, somewhere between the painted eyes, she had at least managed to turn herself around so that she could see the interior of the bireme.
The view from under the warship’s upper deck contrasted sharply with the festive scene above. On a narrow wooden bench nearby, half a dozen swarthy soldiers with arms in slings and cloth bandages covering old wounds sat in silence. Wretched slaves slumped in the rowing benches. Blood stains old and new decorated the timber planking. In addition to the supplies, the hold where Chloe lay was stuffed with loot: sacks of jewelry and decorative chests sealed tight. Before the quake, Kargan had said his ship had been trading, but it was obvious his men had been in combat.
Chloe moaned and tried to cry out again and again as the night passed with terrifying speed. She kicked at the timber but no one came to save her. Tears trickled from her eyes and the twine cut into her ankles and wrists.
Then the worst happened. The hatches on the upper deck opened, sending in a puff of fresh air that was swiftly swallowed by the evil reek below. Men came down the ladders and barked orders. The slaves scurried as they left their benches and exited the vessel; soon she felt them hauling its bulk off the shore.
The bireme rocked as it wallowed in the water before the slaves returned and a whip cracked, sending them to their positions. Oars slid out and a drum began to beat, sending a pounding rhythm through the ship’s interior, throbbing in time to Chloe’s constricted wrists. She screamed and kicked, writhing and rolling, trying to free herself, but Kargan’s men knew their business, and the knots were too tight for her to have any hope of freeing herself. Her nostrils flared and her heart raced as she hyperventilated, feeling her vision close in as she fought to get enough air into her lungs. The gag in her mouth, a tight ball of cloth, pressed up close against the back of her throat. It was held in place by a second length of linen tied behind her head.
The ship started to roll up and down as it carved its way through ever-bigger waves. Chloe felt the floor beneath her drop and then rise with each movement. She closed her eyes; the motion made her feel ill and disoriented, and she knew it would never stop.
After more than an hour she opened her eyes when she heard voices. Kargan stood nearby, regarding her. Despite there being two rows of benches, there was only the one central floor running the length of the ship, and the ceiling was low enough that Kargan had to crouch to look at her.
‘Free her hands and legs, then bring her up to me,’ he ordered.
Kargan couldn’t have slept, yet the night appeared to have taken no toll on him, aside from a slight shadow beneath his black eyes. None of his previous humor was evident as he returned to the topmost deck.
A sailor cut through Chloe’s bonds, then hauled her to her feet. With oarsmen moving back and forth at both sides, he led her to a ladder leading to an open hatch.
‘Climb.’
She tried to grip the rungs but couldn’t. Fire filled her fingers and she cried out in pain. Her limbs were little better; she could barely stand.
The sailor looked up at the open hatch, where another man beckoned, his arms reaching. Chloe felt herself lifted from underneath and the other man grabbed her arms. The sailor on the top deck hauled her up and sat her on the edge of the hatch.
‘I . . . I can walk,’ Chloe said.
He grunted and stood as she clambered to her feet. The bright light blinded her and the deck rolled, nearly sending her over the rail until yet another sailor caught her. Spying the mast, she gripped a hoop on the stout pole with one hand and waited for her eyes to adjust to the glare. High above her a square sail snapped in the freshening wind. The air was blessedly fresh, her senses freed from the sickening reek below.
‘Hurry up!’ She heard Kargan’s voice.
He stood at the ship’s bow, legs astride, easily riding the ship’s listing rhythm. He had changed into long linen trousers and an open shirt that revealed his barrel chest, covered with a dense mat of dark hair.
A strong hand pushed her from behind and she walked to the bow, where a forked bench afforded space for two people to sit side by side. The bowsprit nodded up and down while, audible even on the topmost deck, the throbbing drum formed a countermelody to the splashes of more than a hundred oars.
Glancing over her shoulder, Chloe felt her stomach lurch when she saw that her homeland was little more than a flat gray line on the horizon. She knew that none of her father’s ships was this fast. No one could catch her, and even if a captain could, no Phalesian warship working alone could challenge the bireme’s power.
‘Come,’ Kargan said. ‘Sit.’
Chloe lurched to the seat opposite. Her bowels clenched at the unceasing up-and-down, rolling motion. She had never enjoyed the sea.
‘You want to know why I took you,’ Kargan said. ‘I have more than one answer to give.’ He paused as he gazed back along the deck of his ship, and then looked up at the sail, finally nodding in satisfaction. ‘I think the sun king will want to learn more about your people.’
‘My father will see this as a declaration of war,’ she said, glaring at him.
‘I think not,’ he said dismissively. ‘Your consuls were afraid of me.’ He shrugged. ‘And perhaps war is what the sun king will want. If not, you can always be returned. Or ransomed.’ He stared directly into her eyes. ‘At any rate, your father is no king. A king would seek vengeance, no matter the consequence. But these consuls will advise caution. Such men always do.’
Chloe felt the seeds of doubt grow in her mind. She knew the way the Assembly functioned.
‘Believe me, Chloe of Phalesia,’ Kargan said. ‘Your fate is now in the hands of the sun king.’
17
Dion climbed the series of stone steps cut into the cliff at odd angles. Some were larger than others and he had to be careful with his footing. The higher he ascended, the more conscious he was of the steep drop to the sea below.
He tried not to look down, instead focusing on each individual step. But his gaze wandered, and he occasionally looked out at the city, seeing a scene of strange normality at the agora and surrounding temples where one would instead expect chaos and turmoil.
Finally, the path leveled and he paused, gripping a nearby jut, and waited for his breathing and heart rate to return to normal. Tough shrubs lined both sides of the path ahead, which was short and led directly to the plateau.
He had never climbed to the Temple of Aldus before, and had never been so high. The cliff dropped away at his left and he fought off the dizzying sensation of vertigo as he walked along the path. Keeping his back straight and his eyes level, he approached the dozen columns surrounding the flat, circular space, and now that his footsteps were taking him away from the cliff he finally began to breathe more easily.
From his vantage point he could see the entire city of Phalesia revealed behind the plateau’s far side. The evenly spaced columns held up no roof, simply providing a skirting fence for the sacred relics within. Even though it was near noon, the eternal flame was easily visible, burning fiercely on a stepped pyramid, nestled within a hollow at the very top. The spears of fire leaped and danced.
Six paces in front of the flame, at the temple’s perfect center, the Ark of Revelation shone brightly, the gold shimmering under the sun’s rays. Ornate and decorated with imprinted designs, it had a flat lid that was small compared to the chest. Strange, sharply angled symbols were arranged along the front, underneath lines of cursive text in a language Dion had never seen before.
Even though strong purpose had brought him here, he stopped in awe.
But he shook himself and intentionally tore his eyes away from the golden chest. He looked instead at the solitary man who knelt in front of the ark, his hands clasped together and his lips moving soundlessly as he prayed.
It was unthinkable to disturb First Consul Aristocles at prayer, but some things could not wait. Amos of the city guard had told Dion that Aristocles was so grief-stricken he was spending nearly all his time at the temple, praying to the gods and pacing, gazing out to sea in the direction his daughter had been taken.
Dion licked his lips and spoke. ‘First Consul.’
Aristocles looked up in surprise. He appeared to have aged dramatically, though little time had passed since their last meeting. The white hair framing his bald crown was lank and the skin around his eyes was shadowed and sunken; he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He slowly clambered to his feet and turned to face Dion.
Dion walked forward to meet him, taking in the older man’s grubby tunic and coming to the conclusion that Aristocles hadn’t washed or changed his clothes since his daughter’s capture. ‘I’ve heard the news, and I wish to express my sympathy.’
‘Dion,’ Aristocles said listlessly, gazing at him with reddened eyes. ‘What brings you here? What is so urgent as to disturb me at prayer?’
‘My father sent me to learn more about the newcomers. He fears that more ships will come in the wake of this visit. I was to ascertain their intentions.’
Aristocles gave a sardonic laugh.
Dion continued: ‘I believe my task is even more important now. Their intentions are clear. The Ileans are undoubtedly hostile. The fates of our two nations may hang in the balance. Yet, huddled in the mountains as we are, Xanthos is in the dark.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Aristocles said wearily. ‘But my problems are nonetheless greater than yours.’
‘Have you sent a rescue party yet?’
‘I cannot.’ Aristocles shook his head. ‘The consuls fear any act that may lead to outright war.’
Dion was puzzled. ‘Hasn’t that already happened?’
‘No,’ Aristocles said. ‘This could still be brushed off as a mistake, with both parties pretending misunderstanding, and any wounds soothed with silver and gold.’
Dion opened his mouth, then closed it. ‘So what are you saying? What will happen to your daughter?’
The first consul sighed. He looked like a man in physical pain. ‘I must pray that her captors treat her well and keep her safe. I tell myself that they wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of capturing her if they intended her harm.’
‘Surely the consuls are advising some response?’
‘Many believe the day will soon come when the sun king’s men will return demanding tribute and acknowledgement of vassalage. It stands to reason that any agreement would be conditional on return of my daughter. To this end they believe that it is time to start gathering gold.’
Dion’s eyes widened with horror. ‘They’ve given up? All because of one warship seizing a citizen, the daughter of the first consul? And Phalesia would give up its independence?’
Aristocles spread his hands. ‘Nothing has been decided. A decision will take many days, if not weeks. It is not my choice alone.’
Dion met the first consul’s gaze with an intent stare. ‘What would you do?’
‘It’s not about what I would do. We are an Assembly.’
‘Pretend you are king for a day.’
Aristocles coughed and turned his head away. When he again met Dion’s gaze, Dion saw that the first consul’s eyes glistened. ‘I know my daughter. She would never allow herself to be any part of Phalesia’s loss of sovereignty. She would toss herself into the sea rather than be a bargaining chip. I also know of this sun king, Solon, by reputation. If Phalesia gives him gold he will only demand more. Negotiation is not our best move.’
Dion glanced at the golden chest. ‘Why not hide the ark? Put it somewhere safe?’
‘We could never do it,’ Aristocles said. ‘It would send a message that we cannot defend our most sacred relic. The people would never stand for it. We consuls only have the power they give us.’
‘Then you must launch a rescue mission,’ Dion said. ‘The longer you wait the smaller the chance of success.’
‘If a Phalesian oceangoing vessel left these waters the Assembly would learn of it. Though every moment that passes takes her further away, I cannot order a rescue, not alone, not without the Assembly’s approval. I am working on it, but it will take time. Until I can gather a vote, my hands are tied.’
Dion made sure Aristocles took note of his next words. ‘I am not Phalesian,’ he said, fixing the first consul with a firm stare.
Aristocles tilted his head. He stayed silent.
‘My father has given me permission to travel to Ilea, posing as a trader from Xanthos.’
‘To what end?’
‘To ascertain the sun king’s intentions and capabilities. To learn about these warships and their construction.’
&nb
sp; Aristocles stood back and looked Dion up and down, his expression pensive.
‘The sun king knows nothing of my people,’ Dion continued. ‘They wouldn’t immediately connect me with Phalesia.’
‘Speak plainly, Dion of Xanthos,’ Aristocles said. ‘What are you saying?’
‘The sun king wouldn’t suspect me of making a rescue attempt.’
‘Your father knows of this?’
‘I just arrived. He has no knowledge of your daughter’s capture.’
‘Why would you help me?’
‘Because I believe a war is coming, with the Maltherean Sea as battleground. Because with your daughter hostage the likely outcome is that Phalesia will focus on ransom rather than gearing up for war. Because we in Xanthos need your navy and your men if we are to survive.’
Dion paused to let his words sink in.
‘Alone, Xanthos cannot survive against the sun king,’ he continued. ‘The Ileans have shown their intentions. War will come. We need to get your daughter to safety, to take her out of the conflict. We need to prepare.’
Silence ensued, broken only by the wind whistling on the cliff top and the faint sound of waves crashing below. The glaring sun reminded Dion that time was passing.
‘I will pray to the gods,’ Aristocles finally said.
At that instant Dion caught fleeting motion out of the corner of his eye. His breath caught as he saw an eagle flying in an arc. The great bird settled in the air, just a few feet from the edge of the cliff, where it hovered, watching them with intelligent eyes. The eagle spent long seconds simply regarding the two men, and then wheeled away. It flew swiftly away from the temple, in a direct path out to sea.
The two watchers followed the eagle’s flight but it never changed course, becoming a tiny speck, and then vanishing altogether.
Aristocles’ face was white.
‘The omen is clear,’ the first consul said. ‘War is coming. Go, Dion of Xanthos. My prayers will be with you. Do your utmost.’
He spoke with ragged emotion as he gripped Dion’s shoulders.
Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) Page 12