Pandion turned off the road and, leaping over the bushes, made for the sea, his angrily screaming pursuers hot on his heels.
The bushes grew scantier and the ground rose in a short slope. Reaching the top Pandion halted — far below, under a wall of steep cliffs, lay the sea, sparkling in the sunlight. A red ship, sailing along slowly some ten stadia from the shore, could be clearly seen.
The youth ran along the edge of the cliff, trying to find a path leading downwards, but the vertical wall of the cliffs extended far in both directions. There was no way of escape, his pursuers were already clear of the bushes, extending as they ran into a long crescent in order to cut off Pandion on three sides. He looked towards his pursuers and then down at the cliff. “Death is before me and slavery behind,” was the thought that ran through his head. “Forgive me, Thessa, if you ever find out…” No further time was to be lost.
The rock on which Pandion was standing extended beyond the cliff face. Some twenty cubits below him there was another ledge on which a low pine-tree was growing.
Sweeping his beloved sea with a glance of farewell, the youth sprang into the thick branches of the lone tree. For a second the infuriated cries of his enemies reached his ears. Pandion crashed through the tree, breaking its branches and lacerating his body, flew past the rocky ledge on to the soft resilient ground of the lower slope. The youth rolled some twenty cubits farther down the slope and came to rest on a ledge damp from the spray that reached it at high tide. Stunned and still unaware that he had escaped, the youth rose to his knees. The pursuers above him were trying to hit him with stones and javelins. The sea splashed at his feet.
The ship drew nearer as though the mariners were interested in what was happening on shore.
There were noises in Pandion’s head, his whole body ached dreadfully, bringing tears to his eyes. Dimly he realized that when his pursuers brought bows and arrows, he would most certainly be killed. The sea drew him on, the approaching ship seemed like salvation sent by the gods. Pandion forgot that it might be a foreign ship or might belong to his enemies — he felt that his native sea could not deceive him. He stood up on his feet, assured himself that his arms were intact, jumped into the sea and swam for the ship. The waves swept over his head, his battered body did not want to submit to his will, his wounds burned painfully and his throat was parched. The vessel drew nearer to Pandion and those on board gave him cries of encouragement. He could hear the creaking of the oars, the hull of the ship rose over his head and strong hands seized him and pulled him on to the deck. Unconscious and seemingly lifeless, the youth lay stretched out on the warm planks of the deck. They brought him round and gave him water — he drank long and avidly. Pandion felt himself being carried to one side and covered over with something; then he sank into a deep sleep.
The mountains of Crete could be faintly distinguished on the horizon. Pandion stirred, gave an involuntary groan and opened his eyes. He was on board a ship that was nothing like those of his own country, with their low gunwales protected at the sides by wattles of plaited withies and with the oars above the hold. This vessel had high sides, the rowers sat below the deck on either side of a gangway that widened in the depths of the hold. The single sail on the mast in the centre of the ship was higher and narrower than those on the ships of Hellas.
Piles of hides lying on the deck gave off a foul odour. Pandion was lying on the narrow triangular deck in the prow of the vessel. He was approached by a bearded, aquiline-nosed man in thick woollen clothing, who offered him a bowl of warm water mixed with wine and spoke to him in an unknown language with sharp, metallic intonations. Pandion shook his head. The man touched him on the shoulder and with an imperative gesture pointed to the sternsheets of the vessel. Pandion gathered his bloodstained rags around his loins and made his way along the gunwale towards the awning in the stern.
Here sat a thin man, aquiline-nosed, like the one who had brought Pandion. His lips, framed in a stiff beard that stuck out in front of him, parted in a smile. His wind-dried, rapacious face, like a bronze casting, had a cruel look about it.
Pandion gathered that he was on board a Phoenician merchant ship and that the man before him was either the captain or the owner.
He did not understand the first two questions the man asked him. Then the merchant spoke in a broken Ionian dialect that Pandion could understand although there were Carian and Etruscan words mixed in his speech. He asked Pandion about his adventures, learned who he was and where he had come from and, thrusting his eagle-nosed face with its unblinking eyes close to Pandion, said to him;
“I saw your escape — that was a deed of valour worthy of one of the heroes of old. I’m in need of such strong and fearless warriors — in these waters and on the coasts there are many pirates who plunder our merchants. If you serve me faithfully you’ll have an easy life and I shall reward you.”
Pandion shook his head in refusal saying that he must return to his own country as soon as possible and imploring the merchant to put him ashore on the nearest island.
The merchant’s eyes flashed evilly.
“My ship is sailing straight to Tyre there is nothing but sea on that route. I’m king aboard my ship and you’re in my power. I could order you to be killed immediately if I wanted to. Take your choice — either there,” the Phoenician pointed below the deck where the oars moved rhythmically to the plaintive singing of the rowers, “where you’ll be a slave chained to the oars, or join them,” the merchant’s finger swept round and pointed below the awning: there sat five husky, half-naked men with stupid and brutal faces. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
Pandion looked helplessly round him. The vessel was fast drawing away from Crete. The distance between him and his own country was rapidly increasing. There was no help to be expected from anywhere.
Pandion decided that he would have more chance of escape as a soldier. The Phoenician, however, who was well acquainted with the habits of the Hellenes, made him swear three awful oaths of loyalty.
The merchant then treated his wounds with soothing ointments and led him to the group of fighting men, telling them to feed him.
“Keep an eye on him,” he warned them. “Remember that all of you are responsible to me for the actions of each single one.”
The senior soldier laughed approvingly, patted Pandion on the shoulder, felt his muscles and said something to the others. The soldiers roared with laughter. Pandion looked at them in perplexity, for now his deep sorrow made him not as other men.
In the four days that he had spent on board ship Pandion had to some extent accustomed himself to his new position. The wounds and bruises proved but slight and they soon healed. Another two days sailing would bring them to Tyre.
The master of the vessel recognized the intellect and varied knowledge possessed by Pandion, and was very satisfied with him; he had several long talks with Pandion who learned from him that they were following the ancient sea route established by the people of Crete in their journeys to the southern lands of the black people. The route lay along the shores of mighty and hostile Aigyptos and farther along the gigantic deserts as far as the Gates of the Mists. (The Gates of the Mists — the Strait of Gibraltar. The Sea of Mists — the Atlantic Ocean..)
At the Gates of the Mists, where the rocks of north and south drew close together forming a narrow strait, the world ended — beyond them lay the great Sea of Mists.** Here the ships turned south and soon reached the hot shores of the land of the black people, rich in ivory, gold, oils and skins, Pandion knew that the ancient inhabitants of Crete had used this route, for he had seen pictures of such a journey on the day that had proved fatal to him. The Sea People’s ships reached lands farther to the south than any visited by emissaries from Aigyptos.
In Pandion’s time, however, Phoenician ships sailed along the northern and southern shores in search of cheap merchandise and strong slaves, but they rarely passed beyond the Gates of the Mists.
The Phoenician sensed unusual tale
nts in Pandion and wanted to keep him in his service. He tempted the youth with the pleasures of distant journeys, drew for him pictures of his future advancement and prophesied that after ten or fifteen years good service he could himself become a merchant or master of a ship.
Pandion listened with interest to the Phoenician’s stories but he knew full well that the life of a merchant was not for him, that he would never exchange his native land, Thessa and the free life of the artist for wealth in a foreign country.
As the days passed his longing to see Thessa, even if only for a moment, became more and more unbearable as did his desire to hear the mighty noises of the sacred pine grove in which he had spent so many happy hours. Lying beside his snoring companions, Pandion could get no sleep and with difficulty stilled his fast-beating heart and stifled groans of despair.
The ship’s master ordered him to learn the work of helmsman. The time hung heavily, when Pandion stood at the stern oar, calculating the direction of the ship by the movement of the sun or, following the instructions of an experienced helmsman, his way by the stars at night.
So it was on that night. Pandion stood with his hip pressed against the gunwale, his hands firmly grasping the stern oar to overcome the resistance of the rising wind. On the other side of the vessel, which, as was the custom in those days, had a stern oar or rudder on either side, stood a helmsman and a soldier. The stars flitted through gaps in the clouds and then disappeared in the gloom of the threatening sky, and the mournful voice of the wind, growing deeper in tone, rose to an ominous howl.
The vessel was tossed on the waves, the oars slapped dully on the water and the voice of the overseer could be more frequently heard as he drove on the slaves with curses and blows of his whip.
The master, who had been sleeping under the awning, came out on deck. He studied the sea attentively and, obviously troubled, went to the chief helmsman. They talked together for a long time. Then the master awakened the sleeping soldiers and sent them to the stern oars, himself taking his place beside Pandion.
The wind veered sharply round and started beating furiously at the ship, the waves rose higher and higher, sweeping over the deck. The mast had to be unstepped, and as it lay on the piles of hides it projected beyond the bow, striking dully against the ship’s high prow.
The struggle against wind and waves was becoming more and more desperate. The master, muttering either prayers or curses under his breath, ordered the helmsmen to turn the vessel to the south. With the wind behind her the vessel raced forward into the black, unknown sea. The night passed quickly in heavy work at the rudder. In the grey light of dawn the gigantic waves looked even more threatening. The storm had not subsided, the wind, unabated, lashed the frail ship.
Shouts of alarm swept across the deck — all hands called the master’s attention to something to the starboard of the vessel. There, in the dull light of the dawning day, the sea was broken by a long line of foam. The waves slowed down in their mad race as they approached the blue-grey line.
The entire crew of the vessel clustered round the master, even the helmsman handing over his oar to a soldier. Shouts of alarm gave way to rapid, excited speech. Pandion noticed that all eyes were fixed on him, fingers pointed in his direction and fists threatened him. He could understand nothing of what was going on but saw the master making angry gestures of protest. The old helmsman, seizing the master by the arm, spoke to him for a long time, his lips near the master’s ear. The master shook his head in refusal, and shouted some abrupt words but, at last, he apparently had to give way. In an instant the people threw themselves on the astounded youth, binding his hands behind him.
“They say you have brought misfortune upon us,” said the master to Pandion, waving his hands disdainfully in the direction of his crew. “You’re the herald of calamity, it’s your presence on board that has drawn our ship towards Tha-Quem, (Tha-Quem — the Black Land, or simply Quemt, the Black, the name given by the ancient Egyptians to their country.) in your language Aigyptos. To placate the gods you must be killed and thrown overboard — this all my people demand and I cannot protect you.”
Pandion still did not understand and stared hard at the Phoenician.
“You do not know that it means death or slavery to land on the shores of Tha-Quem,” the master muttered despondently. “In days of old there was a war between Tha-Quem and the Sea People. Since then everybody who lands anywhere in that country, except the three ports open to foreigners, is either killed or sent to slavery and his property goes to the King of Tha-Quem. Do you understand now?” The Phoenician broke off abruptly and, turning away from Pandion, gazed at the fast approaching line of foam.
Pandion realized that he was again threatened with death. Ready to fight to the very last minute for a life that was dear to him he cast a helpless glance full of hatred at the infuriated crowd on the deck.
The hopelessness of the situation caused him to take a rapid decision.
“Master!” exclaimed the youth. “Tell your people to release me — I will jump into the sea myself!”
“That’s what I thought,” said the Phoenician, turning towards him. “Let these cowards learn from you!”
In answer to an imperative gesture from the master the crew released Pandion. Without looking at anybody the youth walked towards the ship’s gunwale. The people made way for him in silence as they would for a man going to his death.
Pandion stared fixedly at the line of foam that hid the low shore, instinctively comparing his strength with the speed of the vicious waves. Fragments of thoughts flashed through his mind: the land beyond the foam line, the Land of Foam… Africa…
(Africa — from the Greek aphros — foam. Hence also Aphrodite — the foam-born.)
So this was the dreaded Aigyptos!… And he had vowed to Thessa by all the gods and by his love for her that he would not even think of journeying so far!… O Gods! What game was fate playing with him?… But he would most likely perish and that would be for the best…
Pandion dived head first into the noisy depths and, using his strong arms, swam away from the ship. The waves seized hold of him; it seemed that they took delight in the death of a man, they threw him high on their crests and then cast him down into the troughs, they crushed and battered him, they filled his nose and mouth with water, they slashed his eyes with foaming spray. Pandion no longer thought of anything — he was struggling desperately for his life, for every breath of air, working furiously with his hands and feet. The Hellene, born by the sea, was an excellent swimmer.
Time passed and the waves carried him on and on towards the shore. He did not look back at the ship, he had forgotten its existence in face of almost certain death. The rocking of the waves grew less. They swept on more slowly than before in long rollers that rose and fell in a roaring swirl of seething foam. Every fresh wave carried Pandion a hundred cubits nearer the shore. Sometimes he sank into the trough of a wave; then a terrific weight of water crashed down on him, driving him down and down into the dark depths until his heart was ready to burst.
Thus he swam on for several stadia, much time passed in this struggle against the waves, until at last his strength failed him and he felt that it was becoming impossible for him to continue the struggle against the giant waters that were trying to embrace him. As he grew weaker the will to live died out in him, it became more and more difficult to strain his aching muscles and his desire to continue the struggle weakened. With jerky movements of arms that worked almost outside his will he rose on the crest of a wave, turned his face towards his distant country and shouted at the top of his voice:
“Thessa, Thessa!…”
The name of the one he loved, hurled twice in the face of fate, in the face of the monstrous and indifferent might of the sea, was immediately drowned by the howl of the stormy waves; one of them closed over Pandion’s motionless body, the youth sank down into the water and suddenly struck the seabed in a whirl of churned-up sand.
Two soldiers in short green ki
lts, an outpost of the Great Green Sea (Great Green Sea was the name given by the Egyptians to the Mediterranean.)coast watchers, leaned on their long spears and stared at the horizon.
“Captain Seneb sent us here for nothing,” said the elder of them in a lazy voice.
“But the Phoenician ship was quite close to the shore,” objected the other. “If the storm hadn’t died down we’d have got easy booty, and right close to the fortress, too.”
“Look over there,” said the elder soldier, pointing along the beach. “May I remain unburied when I die if that isn’t a man from the ship!”
For a long time the two soldiers gazed at the black speck on the beach.
“Let’s go back,” said the younger soldier. “We’ve been trudging through the sand long enough already. Who wants the body of a despised foreigner instead of rich booty — the merchandise and slaves that were on that ship…”
“You talk without thinking,” the elder man interrupted him again. “Those merchants are sometimes richly dressed and wear jewellery. A gold ring wouldn’t do you any harm — why should we report every drowned man to Seneb?…”
The soldiers marched along the damp sand of a beach beaten hard by the storm.
“Where’s your jewellery?” the young soldier asked mockingly. “He’s stark naked.”
The elder man uttered a disgruntled curse.
And, indeed, the man lying face down on the sand was completely unclothed, his arms bent helplessly under his torso and his short curly hair full of sea-sand.
“Look,” exclaimed the elder soldier. “He isn’t a Phoenician. “What a strong and beautiful body! It’s a pity he’s dead, he would have made a fine slave and Seneb would have rewarded us.”
“What country is he from?” asked the younger.
“I don’t know, perhaps he’s a Turusha, or a Kefti, or maybe one of those Sea Peoples, the Hanebu. (Turusha — Etruscan. Kefti or Keftiu — the Egyptian name for Crete and its inhabitants. Hanebu — northerner.) They are rarely to be found in our blessed land and are valued for their endurance, strength and intellect. Three years ago… Wait a minute, he’s alive, praise be to Amon!”
The Land of Foam Page 6
