Lord of the Silver Bow t-1

by David Gemmell

  He had laughed then, and drawn her into an embrace, lifting her from her feet and swinging her round. ‘And your friendship is beyond price,’ he said.

  ‘Just as well my body isn’t,’ she responded. ‘Otherwise I might have been living like Phia’s mother in that hovel.’

  Smiling at the memory he scanned the ship. The two Mykene passengers were standing on the port side. Both wore armour and had swords scabbarded at their hips. The elder of them, the chisel-bearded Argurios, stared up at him, his gaze openly malevolent.

  You would like to kill me, Helikaon thought. To avenge Alektruon. But you will come at me face to face, Argurios. No dagger in the back, no poison in the cup.

  The young man beside Argurios spoke then, and the warrior swung to face him.

  Helikaon continued to watch him. Argurios was not a big man, though his arms were heavily muscled. They were also criss-crossed with many scars of combat.

  Stories of heroes were told in every port on the Great Green, spread by sailors who loved tales of combat and bravery. Argurios featured in many of those tales.

  He had fought in battles all across the western lands, from Sparta in the south to Thessaly in the north, and even to the borders of Thraki. All of the stories told of his courage, and not one spoke of rape, torture or assassination.

  Helikaon’s thoughts swung back to the man who had followed him in Kypros. He’d thought he had the assassin trapped at Phaedra’s house. Zidantas and four other men were waiting beyond the wall. Yet he had avoided them all. Ox said he had disappeared, as if by magic. Helikaon did not believe in magic. The assassin was highly skilled – like the man who had killed Helikaon’s father. No-one had seen him either. He had entered the palace, made his way to the king’s apartments and cut his throat. He had also – inexplicably – sliced away his father’s right ear.

  Then he had left. Not one of the guards had seen him. Not one of the servants had noted any strangers present.

  Perhaps he too was being hunted by such a man.

  He saw the fork-bearded Zidantas approaching, followed by two senior crewmen.

  Zidantas climbed to the rear deck. ‘We are ready, Golden One,’ he said. Helikaon nodded. Ox swung away. ‘Ready the oars! Stand by the sail!’ he bellowed. ‘Raise the anchors!’

  The crew moved swiftly to their places, the anchor men fore and aft, hauling on the thick ropes, lifting the great stone anchors from the seabed.

  Helikaon glanced at the young boy, Xander. He was looking frightened now, his eyes wide and staring. He kept glancing back at the shore.

  ‘By the mark of One!’ shouted Ox. The banks of oars lifted and dipped.

  And the great ship began to glide serenely across the bay.

  iii

  For the twelve-year-old Xander the trip on the Xanthos represented the greatest adventure of his life. For as long as he could remember he had dreamed of sailing upon the Great Green. High in the Kypriot hills, as he tended his grandfather’s goats, or helped his mother and sisters prepare paints for the pottery dishes they traded in the settlement, he would imagine being on a ship, feeling the swell of the sea beneath his feet. Often, as he wandered along the high ground he would stop, and stare longingly at the vessels heading south towards Egypte, or east to Ugarit – or even to Miletos and the legendary Troy with its towers of solid gold.

  He remembered his father, Akamas, and the other sailors launching the Ithaka. He had stood with his grandfather on the beach as the galley floated clear, and watched the oarsmen take up their positions. His father was a great rower, powerful and untiring. He was also, as grandfather often said, ‘a good man to have beside you in a storm’.

  Xander recalled the last farewell with agonizing clarity. His father had stood and waved, his red hair glinting like fire in the dawn light. He had died days later in the battle with the savage Mykene pirate, Alektruon. Xander knew he had died bravely, defending his friends and his ship. The Golden One had come to their house in the hills, and had sat with Xander, and told him of his father’s greatness. He had brought gifts for mother and grandfather, and had talked quietly with them both. In this he did them great honour, for Helikaon was the son of a king. He was also a demi-god.

  Grandfather scoffed at the story. ‘All these nobles claim descent from the gods,’ he said. ‘But they are men like you and me, Xander. Helikaon is better than most,’ he admitted. ‘Not many highborns would take the trouble to visit the bereaved.’ He had turned away and Xander had seen that he was crying. And he had cried too. After a while grandfather put his arm round Xander’s shoulders. ‘No shame in tears, boy. Your father deserved tears. Good man. I was proud of him always. As I will be proud of you. Next year Helikaon says he will take you in his crew and you will learn the ways of the sea. You will be a fine, brave man, like your father, and you will bring honour to our family.’ ‘Will I be an oarsman, grandfather?’

  ‘Not for a while, lad. You are too short. But you’ll grow. And you’ll grow strong.’

  The year had dragged by, but at last the great new ship was ready, and the crew began to muster. Grandfather had walked with him to the port just before dawn, filling him with so much advice it seemed to be running out of Xander’s ears. ‘Look to Zidantas,’ was one comment he remembered. ‘Good man. Your father spoke well of him. Never shirk any duty Ox gives you. Do your best always.’ ‘I will, grandfather.’

  The old man had gazed at the great ship, with its two banks of oars, and its colossal mast. Then he had shaken his head. ‘Be lucky, Xander. And be brave. You will find that bravery and luck are often bedfellows.’

  Xander had been rowed out to the ship just as the sun appeared in the east, its light turning the Xanthos to pale gold. It was a beautiful sight and Xander felt his heart surge with joy. This wondrous vessel was to be his ship. He would learn to be a great seaman, like his father. Grandfather would be proud of him. And mother too.

  The small rowing vessel came alongside the ship, under the raised bank of oars. There were three other crewmen being ferried out, and they tossed up their sacks of belongings and scaled ropes to the deck. Xander would have done the same, but a sturdy rower moved alongside him. 'Up you go, shortshanks,' he said, lifting Xander up to the lowest oar port. He had scrambled through and fallen over a narrow rowing seat.

  It was dark here below decks and cramped, but as Xander's eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw the oarsmen's narrow seats, and the planking against which they would brace their legs for the pull. Putting down his own bag he sat in a rowing seat and stretched out his legs. Grandfather was right. He was too short to brace himself. Next year, though, he thought, I will be tall enough. Gathering his bag he made his way to the upper hatch and climbed out. There were already sailors on board, and two passengers, wearing armour. The eldest was a grim-faced bearded man with cold, hard eyes. Xander had seen men like them before. They were Mykene, the same race as the pirates who had killed his father. Their armies roamed the western lands, plundering towns and cities, taking slaves and gold. Mykene pirates often crossed the sea to raid settlements along the coastline. Grandfather hated them. 'They are a blood-hungry people, and they will one day come to dust,' he had said.

  The main cargo hatch was open and Xander saw sailors carrying goods down into the hold: big clay amphorae, filled with wine or spices; large packages of pottery plates, bound in rawhide and protected by outer layers of bark. There were weapons, too, axes and swords, shields and helms. Seamen with ropes were hauling up other goods. Xander moved forward to peer down into the hold. It was deep. A man came up the steps and almost bumped into him. 'Be careful, boy,' he said, as he moved past. Xander backed away from the working crew. He wandered to the deck rail, and stared back at the beach, where his grandfather still stood. The old man saw him and waved. Xander waved back, suddenly fearful. He was about to go on a voyage, and the immensity of the adventure threatened to overwhelm him.

  Then a massive hand settled on his shoulder. Xander jumped and swung round. An enormous, bald-
headed man with a forked black beard stood there.

  'I am Zidantas,' he said. 'You are the son of Akamas?'

  'I am Xander.'

  The giant nodded. 'Your father spoke of you with some pride. On this voyage you will learn how to be useful. You are too small to row, and too young to fight.

  So you will help those who can do these things. You will carry water to the rowers, and perform any tasks asked of you. When my other duties permit I will show you how to tie knots, how to reef the sail, and so forth. Other than that you will keep out of the way and watch what men do. That is how we learn, Xander. It will be some time before we are ready to sail. It is taking far longer to load than we expected, and the wind is against us. So find somewhere out of the way and wait until the sail is set. Then come to me on the rear deck.'

  Zidantas strode away, and the fear of the unknown returned to Xander. Too young to fight, Zidantas had said. What if they were attacked by pirates? What if he was to die like his father, or drown in the Great Green? Suddenly his tiny room at grandfather's house seemed a wonderful place to be. He looked over the side again, and saw grandfather walking away up the long hill.

  Time passed, and tempers among the men grew short, as the difficulties of hauling goods aboard so high a vessel became more and more vexing. A boat rowed out to them bringing a long fish-ing net, and this was used to raise the more fragile cargo to the deck. Arguments flared and then two sailors dropped a large wine amphora. The clay shattered, and thick red wine flowed across the planking.

  A fight started then, when one of the two threw a punch at the other, calling him an idiot. The two men grappled. Zidantas stepped in, grabbing each by the tunic and dragging them apart. Other men had begun to shout encouragement to the fighters, and the atmosphere was tense.

  Then, in an instant, all activity ceased and a silence fell on the crew.

  Xander saw the Golden One climb over the side and step onto his ship. He was bare-chested and wearing a simple leather kilt. He carried no sword or weapon, and yet his presence quietened the crew, and they shuffled back to work.

  Xander saw him walk over to where Zidantas was still holding the two men, though they were no longer struggling.

  ‘We are losing time, Ox,’ he said. ‘And there is still cargo on the beach.’

  Zidantas pushed the men away. ‘Clear up this mess,’ he told them.

  Helikaon glanced at Xander. ‘Are you ready to be a sailor, son of Akamas?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Are you frightened?’

  ‘A little,’ he admitted.

  ‘A great man once told me there can be no courage without fear,’ said Helikaon.

  ‘He was right. Remember that when your belly trembles, and your legs grow weak.’

  IV

  The Madman from Miletos

  i

  It always iritated Khalkeus when he heard himself described as the Madman from Miletos. He hated the simple inaccuracy of the statement. He wasn’t from Miletos. To be called madman bothered him not at all.

  He stood on the starboard side of the bireme’s central deck, watching as sailors hauled up the great stone anchors. It was close to midday and, mercifully, the cargo was now loaded. Helikaon’s arrival had brought a fresh sense of urgency to the crew, and the Xanthos was preparing to leave the bay.

  A gust of wind caught Khalkeus’ wide-brimmed straw hat, flipping it from his head. He tried to catch it, but a second gust lifted it high, spinning it over the side. The hat sailed over the shimmering blue water, twisting and turning.

  Then, as the wind died down, it flopped to the surface and floated.

  Khalkeus stared at it longingly. His once thick and tightly curled red hair was thinning now, and sprinkled with grey. There was also a bald patch on the crown of his head, which would burn raw and bleed under harsh sunlight.

  An oarsman on the deck below, seeing the floating hat, angled his oar blade beneath it, seeking to lift it clear. He almost succeeded, but the wind blew again, and the hat floated away. A second oarsman tried. Khalkeus heard laughter from below decks, and ‘catching the hat’ quickly became a game, oars clacking against one another. Within moments the straw hat, hammered by broad-bladed oars, had lost its shape. Finally it was lifted clear as a torn and soggy mess and brought back aboard.

  A young sailor pushed open a hatch and climbed to the upper deck, bearing the dripping ruin to where Khalkeus stood. ‘We rescued your hat,’ he said, struggling not to laugh.

  Khalkeus took it from him, resisting the urge to rip it to shreds. Then good humour reasserted itself and he donned the sodden headgear. Water dripped down his face. The young sailor could contain himself no longer, and his laughter pealed out. The wide brim of the hat slowly sagged over Khalkeus’ ears. ‘I think it is an improvement,’ said Khalkeus. The boy spun and ran back to the oar deck.

  The heat of the morning sun was rising, and Khalkeus found himself enjoying the cool, wet straw on his head.

  On the rear deck he saw Helikaon talking with three of his senior crewmen. The trio looked stern and nervous. But then why would they not? thought Khalkeus.

  They were about to sail on a vessel designed and built by the Madman from Miletos.

  Turning back from the deck rail he surveyed his great ship. Several members of the crew were looking at him, their expressions mixed. The new ship had been the subject of much mockery, and Khalkeus – as the shipwright – had been treated with scorn, and even anger. Now, however, they were to sail in the madman’s vessel, and they were fervently hoping that his madness was, in fact, genius.

  For if not they were all doomed.

  The two Mykene passengers were also looking his way, but they regarded him with studied indifference. Unlike the sailors, they probably did not appreciate that their lives now depended on his skills. Khalkeus wondered suddenly if they would care, even if the knowledge was imparted to them. The Mykene were a fearless race: plunderers, killers, reavers. Death held no terror for such men. He stared back at them. Both were tall and lean, cold and distant. The elder, Argurios, had a chisel-shaped black chin beard, and bleak, emotionless eyes. The younger man, Glaukos, was obviously in awe of him. He rarely spoke unless to reply to a remark from Argurios. Although they travelled now among peaceful settlements and quiet islands they were garbed as if for war, short swords and daggers belted at their sides, bronze-reinforced leather kilts about their waists. Argurios had a finely wrought leather cuirass, the shoulders and chest armoured by overlapping bronze discs. The fair-haired Glaukos had a badly shaped breastplate with a crack on the left side. Khalkeus reasoned that Glaukos was from a poor Mykene family, and had attached himself to Argurios in the hope of advancement. For the Mykene advancement always came through war, plunder and the grief and loss of gentler men. Khalkeus loathed the whole damned race!

  If the ship does go down, he thought, that armour will plunge them to their deaths with satisfying speed.

  He felt a flash of irritation at such a defeatist idea. My ship will not sink, he told himself. Then he repeated it in his mind over and over again. His heart began to pound and his fingers started to tremble. Turning to the deck rail he took hold of it, and stood very still, waiting for the panic to pass.

  Ten years of failure and ridicule had damaged his confidence more than he had realized. Reaching into the pouch at his side he pulled forth a tiny piece of silver-grey metal, and ran his thick, workman’s fingers over its glossy surface.

  He sighed. Here was the source of all his misery and the seed of all his hopes.

  Hidden within this one shard was a secret he believed could change not only his fortunes but the destiny of nations. How galling then that he could not discover it.

  His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a booming voice, calling out an order to the sixty oarsmen. Zidantas, the hulking Hittite who served as the Golden One’s second in command, leaned over the rear deck rail. ‘By the mark of One,’ he shouted, sunlight gleaming from his shaved skull. From belo
w deck came a responding call from the lead oarsman.

  ‘Ready! Lift! Brace. And pull!’

  Khalkeus took a deep breath. The oar blades sliced into the blue water and the Xanthos began to glide out over the sea.

  The shipwright listened to the creaking of the wood, seeking to identify the source of every murmur, every tiny, muted groan. Swiftly he calculated once more the amount of rock ballast against the weight of the ship’s timbers and decking, then leaned over the side to watch the prow cleaving through the gentle waves.

  The oarsmen below the top deck began to sing, creating a rhythmic harmony between the smooth actions of their bodies and the chant of the song. There should have been eighty oarsmen, but not even the wealth and reputation of Helikaon, the Golden One, could attract a full crew to the Death Ship. He had heard the Kypriot carpenters whispering as they shaped the hull timbers. ‘She’ll sink when Poseidon swims.’

  When Poseidon swims!

  Why did men always have to hang a god’s deeds on the simple forces of nature?

  Khalkeus knew why longer ships sank in storms, and it had nothing whatever to do with angry deities. The rise and fall of a ship in heavy water would cause extra and uneven pressure at the centre of the keel. Khalkeus had demonstrated this to Helikaon a year ago, as the two men sat on a jetty in the sunshine, overlooking the small Kypriot shipyard. Khalkeus held a long stick with both hands, then slowly bent it up and down, then side to side. Eventually the stick snapped. The longer the stick, the sooner it broke. When this happened to the hull of a ship in angry seas, he had explained, the results would be swift and terrifying. It would tear itself apart in a matter of moments.

  The problem was further exacerbated, Khalkeus continued, by the manner of shipbuilding. Under normal circumstances the hull was pieced together first with planking and dowels. Only then would an inner frame be inserted to strengthen the structure. This was, in Khalkeus’ view, idiotic. Instead, the frame needed to be established at the outset, then the timbers fastened to it. This would give added strength amidships. There were other innovations Khalkeus spoke of on that first meeting. A separate deck, on which the oarsmen could sit, leaving the top deck open, either for cargo or passengers; staggered oar stations, running in a zigzag pattern up and down along the hull; support fins bolted to the hull at the front and rear, so that when the ship was drawn up on beaches at night it would not tilt too violently. These, and more, Khalkeus had described.