‘Were they seeking to arrest you?’
‘No. I saw them attacking a woman and moved in to stop them. They drew swords.
So I killed two of them. I was drunk, and not in control of myself. I regret it now, of course.’
‘If they were attacking a woman you were right to oppose them.’
‘No, I was not. She was a slave, and if Guardsmen choose to rut with slaves that is no crime. The woman was in the wrong for resisting them.’
‘So you fled.’
‘The sentence for the crime would have been the loss of my eyes, and then to be buried alive. No embalming, no walking with Osiris in the Fabled Land, no future among the stars. Yes, I fled. But it seems there is no safe refuge on the Great Green.’
‘You will be safer among my crew in Dardania. We will winter there.’
‘I will think on your offer, Helikaon. And I thank you for making it.’
Helikaon sighed. ‘No need for thanks, Gershom. Many crew will leave when we reach Troy. I can’t afford to lose another good fighting man like you.’
‘I am sure you could convince them to stay on.’
Helikaon gave a rueful smile. ‘Only by telling them the truth, and I cannot afford that.’
‘You’ll need to explain that riddle,’ said Gershom.
‘Perhaps I will – when I come to know you better.’
‘So, what happens now?’
‘We have lost Kolanos, and the season is almost over. I will resume the hunt in the spring. Though it takes all my life I will find him one day. Or he will be delivered to me.’
‘No force under the stars is more powerful than hatred,’ said Gershom.
‘Hatred has no virtue, and yet men can never be free of it,’ replied Helikaon bitterly. ‘But even knowing that, I shall not rest until Kolanos is dead. Such evil cannot be allowed to pass unpunished.’
‘You will send out assassins?’
‘No, I will find him myself.’
Helikaon fell silent. ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Gershom.
Helikaon took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘I was thinking of my father the last time I saw him. He was killed by an assassin. The killer had cut off his ear. Why, I do not know.’
‘You never found out who ordered it?’
‘No. I still have men searching. There is a reward for information. Yet nothing has surfaced. It will, though, one day. Then, like Kolanos, the man who ordered my father’s death will die. This I have sworn.’
Just then a man on the beach began to speak in a loud voice. Gershom moved to the stern rail and looked down. It was Oniacus. ‘Hear our words, O Hades, Lord of the Deepest Dark,’ he shouted, ‘for some of our friends now walk your lands in search of the Elysian Fields!’
The crew began to chant.
Helikaon climbed the rail and lowered himself to the beach. The men remaining on the ship gathered around Gershom, and they too began to chant. The sound was mournful, a song of death and farewell. When it was over Gershom saw Helikaon move to the centre of the circle of men on the sand. He began to speak of Zidantas, of his courage, of his love of family and crew, of his loyalty and the greatness of his spirit. After him came Oniacus once more. He spoke also of Zidantas, and of Epeus and the other dead men, but his stories were smaller and more personal: of the Ox’s generosity and sense of humour, of Epeus’ love of gambling. More men told stories, and at the conclusion of each the crew chanted: ‘Hear our words, O Hades . ..’
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.
Part Two
THE GOLDEN CITY
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 clove through 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 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 had once 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, the 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 jewelled 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 at 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 this, 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 evaded her questions, when he closed the gates upon 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 calling 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 to 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 Thessaly four years ago, 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 also 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 ago, 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 to 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 had not Ox 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 clove 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,’ said Attalus. ‘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, 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.
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 Xantbos – 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 on the gleaming new Xantbos, the oak planks of the deck looked
worn and chipped, and some of the oars appeared 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 sombre. Odysseus told no tales, and the crew of the Penelope kept to themselves, gambling with dice bones, or chatting quietly to 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 nepbthar. 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 ploughs, 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 didn’t want to talk about burning men and death, 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 towards 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 he 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 he could almost see through it.
&nbs
p; ‘Are you going to eat them, boy?’
Xander swung round 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 is 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 grey and brown.’
‘Ah, then these pebbles are travellers, like you and me. They long ago left the seas where they were first made and they have travelled the world. Now they mix with pebbles of a different sort and home is but a dim memory.’
Xander had no answer to this baffling comment, 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, nor did he want to. Bronze was bronze. It didn’t 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.
Lord of the Silver Bow t-1 Page 18
