Black Ships

by Jo Graham

  Meanwhile, Jamarados made good bargains of some of the things we had brought from Millawanda. He and Xandros went often to the markets, and gradually some of the others began to venture out into the city. One day, when it was warm and not raining, I decided to explore on my own. While I do not serve the Lady of the Sea, it seemed to me wise to visit Her temple, since I was now one of Her people, and on the sea at Her mercy. Moreover, I was curious.

  The great temple of the Lady of the Sea, whom they call Ashteret in Byblos, was not a single building. There was an entire quarter given over to it, with a vast marketplace inside. The streets were paved with blocks so finely hewn that the seams were almost invisible, and several wells were bounded about with stone so that one could draw water easily and cleanly. In this marketplace were all the goods of the world—doves and lambs for sacrifice, traders in precious metals and gems, food, ivory, and horn, alabaster, even cloth made of fine Egyptian linen. Last and most costly was the papyrus for writing things on that Byblos gives its name to.

  All this trade was carried on under the eyes of the gods, and the priests took a tenth of the profits here, fees taken out in a deben’s weight of silver or a young kid. Her sanctuary was roofed in fragrant cedar and the roof beams were as broad as a man, such was the wealth of the place.

  With my black cloak drawn about me and my plain robe, I looked like a servant doing the shopping. Well-bred women of Byblos did not go on foot, but in elaborate litters with curtains of fine cloth, attended by bearers and slaves, and I certainly did not look like a priestess of Byblos.

  I don’t know what I expected. Something like the temples of the isles, I suppose, not this vast echoing hall, the altar with the smell of blood still clinging to it, though it was midmorning and not a feast day. People strolled among the columns. Some were seeking shelter from the already strong sun, others loitering just off the marketplace, or talking with the temple girls. I had not understood before that for the price of an offering one can keep company with Ashteret’s servants, going aside with the slave girls who belong to the temple. For that reason the temple is exceedingly well lit in the evening, and offerings are made constantly by sailors of every land.

  At midmorning the oil lamps were not lit and the torches had burned down to ash, great streaks of soot staining the carved columns. I went up the middle of the hall. My footsteps echoed in the vastness.

  The effigy was carved of fine stone and stood nearly twice a woman’s height, with painted staring eyes looking toward the sea. Her arms were raised stiffly, one holding a sistrum and the other a sheaf of grain, for in Byblos She reigns over more than the sea. A painted sacred snake curled around the bottom of Her skirt, as stiff and as lifeless as She was. There was power here, but it did not rest in the statue.

  I knelt at Her feet and waited.

  Nothing happened. I heard the sound of footsteps coming and going, the sound like the waves of the marketplace outside. And nothing more. If She had words for me, I did not hear them.

  After a time I stood up and made my way down the left side of the room. The walls of the temple were courses of stone to just above my head, then planked with cedar above. The roof beams were cedar as well, and the high ceiling.

  The stone walls were covered with carving. Some of them were the scratch marks that the people of this coast use to convey words, but I could not read them. She Who Was Pythia had thought I had no need to read or write the language of the isles, and this was infinitely more complex and difficult, with marks that looked so similar it would take practice to tell them apart. I could see a pattern, but only that—marks repeated frequently that must be common words in the language of Byblos, a language I did not speak. Without the words, the pictures above were pretty and nothing more.

  I had turned to go when I heard a voice I knew.

  “Wait a moment longer,” Xandros said. “Please.”

  I thought he had spoken to me until I turned. In the shadow of the column across the way, almost beneath Her effigy, Xandros stood with his back to me.

  “I can’t,” she said. She drew her hand away, and I saw her as she stepped into the sun that came in through the doors. She was fifteen or so, the first blush of womanhood, small breasted and slim. Her hair fell in oiled curls halfway down her back, her arms were banded in bracelets, and the cascading ruffles of her skirts were embroidered with scarlet and gold. Her skin was warm ivory, her lips and nipples stained red. She was very beautiful.

  “One more moment?” he asked.

  She hesitated, her feathered brows drawn together. “Only a moment,” she said, and stepped toward him, her arms going up to wreath about his neck, her pale skin against his black hair. He kissed her, and I should have looked away. I should not have watched the way his mouth moved on hers, tender and demanding, the way his hand caressed the curve at the small of her back. But I could not look away, even though my heart rose in my throat.

  “Can I see you?” he asked, pulling back, their noses almost touching, hers fair and straight, his darkened by sun. “Later?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Later. Again. I promise.” I heard the slap of her gilded sandals on the stone as she hurried away.

  He had not seen me in the shadow of the column. I waited until he had left.

  With my twisted leg and dusty black robes I looked like a slave doing the shopping. And why shouldn’t I? Was I not born a slave? What should it matter to me what Xandros did? He was not my kinsman or my lover. He was scarcely my friend. He was simply the captain of the ship that fate had put me upon.

  I walked back to the harbor, and a towering fury was on me. Why should I care? Didn’t I know better? What cause had I to expect that Xandros was not like all the other sailors, who rutted and took their pleasure in ports with no thought of tomorrow? Why shouldn’t he be like all other men, who seek nothing but beauty?

  Well, I have little of that, I thought as I stalked through the doors of the house, black cloak billowing behind me. Little enough. Oh, enough to terrify and bring men to their knees from the fear of me. Enough to reach for them in the end with Her white hands.

  I will go apart from the dance, I had promised, and none shall call me beloved.

  I lay down upon my pallet on the floor and stared at the ceiling dry-eyed, and it came to me that I could take this with bitterness, or not. I could imagine that Xandros had betrayed me, when he had promised me nothing, when there was nothing but friendly words between us. Or I could know that it was my fate, not his, that intervened here. I was the one who had promised to go apart from the dance, to need no love but Hers.

  I had spoken no word to him, nor he to me. He did not know that I had seen him at his tryst. And I would never speak of it.

  I rolled over on my pallet and buried my face in my robe. No, I would not speak. I would not let this poison all friendship between us. After all, I had always known that I would be alone.

  THE DAYS OF WINTER passed. Kos seemed satisfied that the work on the ships was well done. But peace could not last. When the men of many nations are confined in port together, words are spoken, insults exchanged. Moreover, I knew Neoptolemos, and I should have known that he would not heed Prince Hiram’s warnings forever, or at least that he should get around them by treachery.

  I was awakened by shouts and the sounds of men running, and dashed into the courtyard in time to see the sturdy gate opening, Amynter with his sword in hand at the door. Jamarados was shouting, and in the light of a single torch I saw them coming in through the gate. Kos had blood on his long knife, and he was half dragging Neas. Blood stained Neas’ tunic and he clasped his side while it dripped onto the ground.

  “What happened?” Amynter demanded.

  “Close the gate,” Jamarados ordered. “And put out those torches. Put men on the walls with bows.” He turned and shouted again. “Put out the torches, I say! Our archers will be backlit!”

  Men leaped onto the walls. The one nearest me was Bai, who grimaced as he climbed but scrambled up nonetheless
.

  I ran to Neas, calling for Lide, the woman with the most healing skill. She came running. I saw now that there were others hurt, though none so much.

  “What happened?” I asked Jamarados.

  “We were coming back from the ships when some men fell upon us in the dark,” he said. Jamarados grimaced. “Neoptolemos.”

  “Where is Xandros?” I said.

  “He wasn’t with us,” he said. “He was at the temple.” Jamarados looked up at the walls. “We’ll keep careful watch, but I don’t really think they’ll follow us back. Assaulting this place would cost them men and bring Prince Hiram down upon them for breaking the peace. As it is, we can’t prove that Neoptolemos had anything to do with it. It might have been common thieves.”

  “Common thieves attack a group of armed men?” I said incredulously.

  Jamarados shrugged. “They were Achaian. But we can’t prove it. And they went for Neas first.”

  I followed Lide and Kos into Neas’ room. They had his tunic off, and I could see the great bloody gash in his side.

  “Water,” Lide said. “Clean water fresh drawn, and cloth. Now.” Kos hastened to do her bidding.

  I went to the door and tried to keep out the dozen or so people who all wanted to crowd in. “Prince Aeneas is hurt,” I said. “Let Lide tend him, please.”

  “Is he dead?” one man asked.

  “No,” I said, moving aside a little so he could see Neas propped up with Lide cleaning the wound, knowing that if I did not let him see the rumor would spread. “He’s hurt; now give him peace.”

  They did eventually begin to disperse, reassured each and every one by me. When there were no others left I went back inside. Lide was wringing out a bloody cloth, and the bowl of water was all blood. Neas lay quiet, white and drawn, bandages wrapped around his middle.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood,” Lide said quietly, “but as near as I can tell it sliced skin and muscle and turned on his last rib. It didn’t go in his stomach or bowels. Prince Aeneas was very lucky.” A stomach wound is almost always fatal, though it may take many days to die.

  “He’s feverish and weak, but if it clears he should be up and about in a week or so,” she said. “I’ll watch over him tonight. He needs sleep and rest now.”

  I left him with her. I walked back into the courtyard, where men still watched upon the walls. In the corridor I saw a small bundle. I thought someone had dropped something until I realized it was a child.

  Wilos looked up with eyes as blue as Neas’. “Is my father dead?” he asked very quietly.

  I knelt beside him. In all the fuss he had been entirely forgotten. “No,” I said. “Your father will be fine. He was hurt in the fight, but he’s sleeping now. When he wakes up you can come and talk to him.”

  Wilos bit his lower lip and said nothing. I picked him up and slung him on my hip. He was small and light for a child nearly five. “Come, then,” I said. “We’ll go see him now.”

  We went in, and Lide stood up. “Just a moment for Prince Wilos,” I said, and put him down beside the bed. There was a glint of bronze at Neas’ throat, one of the marketplace charms from the Great Temple. “You see?” I said to Wilos. “He’s sleeping.”

  Wilos reached out and touched his hand. “Papa?”

  Neas’ eyes flickered. “Wilos? I’m fine, son.” He opened his eyes. “I’ll be fine soon.”

  Wilos worked his mouth, but no sound came out.

  “I’m not going to die,” Neas said. “I’m going to sleep because it’s nighttime. Lide is going to put you to bed, and you’re going to sleep too.”

  I looked across at Lide. “I’ll stay with him.”

  “Come, Prince Wilos,” she said. “It’s long past your bedtime. Let’s go back to bed now.”

  They went out and Neas closed his eyes. “That was well done,” he said.

  “Sleep, Neas,” I said. “Just rest. I will stay.”

  IT WAS THE COLD HOUR before dawn, when even in a great city it grows still. No dogs barked, and the city was silent. I dozed in the chair beside Neas’ bed. The lamp burned low. The only sound was his breath, and I watched the rise and fall of his chest. His fever was no better and no worse. I did not feel my Lady’s presence at all. Which under the circumstances was a relief. If his fever left him, he would live.

  With each breath the sword amulet rose and fell on his chest, the bronze glinting in the lamplight. I dozed and woke with a start.

  Someone had come in without my hearing. He sat in the chair behind the door, his hair bleached by the sun, a young man with a tired face. He wore plain stained leathers, and I would have mistaken him for a man of Byblos if not for the shadow of folded wings.

  “Who are You?” I asked, for I have seen the gods before.

  “You aren’t afraid,” he said with a half smile.

  “Should I be?” I asked. “I serve the Lady of the Dead and rest under Her protection.”

  “Most people fear the gods,” he said.

  “Most do,” I agreed. “But I fear men, and what they do.”

  He smiled again. “You’re brave. I like that. I come only for the brave.”

  I looked down at Neas sleeping, the sword at his throat. I kept my voice steady. “Why are You here? Have You come for him, then?”

  “Not in the way you mean,” he said. “I am not Death.”

  “I know that,” I said.

  “It was I who turned the knife from him,” he said, “so that it scored along his side. If I had not shouted he would not have turned, and it would have taken him in his kidney. And then he would have died.”

  I looked down at Neas’ face and kept my eyes unblinking. “Why did You do that?” I asked. “Neas is not of Your people.”

  He almost shrugged. His shoulders didn’t move, but His wings shifted restlessly. “He’s a brave man. And he wears My sword.”

  “Xandros bought it for him in the temple quarter,” I said. “He said it was for luck.”

  “Well, it’s brought him luck, then.” He smiled a little sheepishly.

  “Who are You?” I asked again.

  “I am Mik-el, one of the warriors who waits upon Baal.”

  I shook my head. I was used to Her awesome majesty, mysterious and beyond understanding. “You are not like any god I have ever met.”

  “I’m a very young god,” he said, and this time he did shrug.

  “Gods can be young? There can be new gods?”

  “There could hardly be gods of war before there were warriors,” he said. “Or gods of grain and harvest before men learned to plant seeds and till the soil. There was a time before that, not so long ago.”

  “But my Lady...” I said.

  “Your Lady is old,” he said. “She was old when the first man looked up from where he knelt in the long grass and wondered why his brother had fallen and would run no more, when the first woman wrapped her dead child and placed her in the earth like a womb. She was old when I was born.”

  “How were You born?” I asked.

  Mik-el’s wings shifted, as though he settled in his chair. His eyes were far away. “I’m not entirely certain. I know what I seem to remember. But I’m not sure whether it is true, or if it happened to Me, or to some other I’ve known.”

  “Tell me,” I said. “If You will. The night is long.”

  He looked at Neas sleeping. “It is long,” he said, and shrugged. “Why not, then?”

  “Once, long ago along a great river, there was a young man who killed a hippopotamus that was mad, that killed men and toppled boats. He killed the beast in the reeds along the river. His people were glad and made him chief over them. For many years he led them, and they grew in number. His children grew strong and his people prospered. But then there was a crocodile. It was twice the length of a man. At first it ate their goats and then it ate their children. People went to the chief and said, ‘When you were young you killed the mighty hippopotamus. Go now and kill this crocodile that eats our children!’ So the chief wen
t with some other men, and they found the place where the crocodile was, and it was twice the length of a man, with teeth longer than a man’s hand. And there was a battle in the mud of the riverbank, and the crocodile lunged and with one great blow bit off the chief’s foot. With his last strength the chief drove his spear into the beast’s brain, and it died. His life blood pumped out on the riverbank. The people were delivered from the crocodile, but their chief was dead.”

  I smiled, for I felt that I had heard this story before, somewhere or other.

  “They buried him at the edge of the desert with every honor, and they made songs about him. They set up a stone and carved a picture of a king with his spear through the crocodile, and they laid flowers and figs before it, praying that they might always have a king who would give his life for his people. His sons and grandsons called upon his spirit to help them when they hunted. Soon others did as well.”

  “And what happened to him?” I asked.

  Mikel put His head to one side. “He didn’t pass on, cross the River, as you would say. He stayed and watched over his people and listened to their invocations. As his sons grew old he whispered in their ears, and did not know if they heard or not. Sometimes it seemed they did. So he stayed. Soon all those he had known and loved had grown old and died, but there were new people, children of his children’s children who hunted along the riverbank. And it seemed to him that there were still young hunters who needed his help, and who whispered his name as they hunted birds in the reeds along the river. So he stayed, and decided he would stay as long as there were those who needed him.”

  “That was long ago,” I said.

  “Many lives of men,” he said. “Before ships sailed the seas or fields were plowed. When all the men there were in the world would fit into one of these great cities.”

  “Why is the world ending?” I asked. “One by one the cities are falling. Like the island that was Thera is sunk in the sea.”