“My king!” With his sword the Follower indicated a gloomy corner where a dark-haired young woman lay on a pallet bed. She was singing quietly to herself, her eyes closed.
Without opening them, she cried, “Fire in the sky and a mountain of water touching the clouds! Beware the Great Horse, Agamemnon King!” The words nudged the elusive memory in Agamemnon’s mind.
Then the girl sat up and turned to look at them, sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs like a child. She was an ugly creature, he thought, dirty and thin as a blade.
“Words of prophecy, King!” she told him. “Words of power! But you did not listen then, and you will not hear me now.” Agamemnon realized that the mad girl had been quoting the words of the priest of the Cave of Wings long ago. How could she know? He was the only one still alive who’d heard the prophecy.
The girl cocked her head and frowned. “You killed Iphigenia,” she said sadly. “I did not foresee that. Poor Iphigenia.”
Agamemnon heard a gasp and turned to see Menelaus hurrying from the temple. So that old crone was our sister, he thought. I never could abide her.
“You have defiled the temple with your bright armor and sharp swords,” Kassandra told him. “You have killed a virgin of the temple.”
Agamemnon snorted. “Will the demigod eat me up?” he asked scornfully.
She looked up at him and locked her eyes with his. “Yes,” she told him simply. “Something is rising.”
He felt a cold trickle down his spine and realized the ground was trembling continuously now, making an infinitely deep note that set his teeth on edge. A headache formed screaming behind his eyes.
“Stand her up!” he ordered, unsheathing his sword again.
Two soldiers grabbed an arm each and lifted Kassandra. She hung like a doll between them, her toes barely touching the ground. The Mykene king placed the tip of his sword against her belly, but the blade seemed to shimmer and buckle in front of his eyes, as if it had been placed in a furnace. He blinked, and it was whole again. He rubbed at the ash and grit in his eyes.
“Where is Helikaon?” he demanded, and was relieved to hear that his voice was firm.
“I would have offered you a forest of truth, but you wish to speak of a single leaf,” she quoted. “Helikaon is far away.”
Her gaze went inward. She frowned. “Hurry, Helikaon. You must hurry!”
“Is he going to Ithaka?”
She shook her head. “Helikaon will never see Ithaka again.”
“And Priam’s treasure, girl? Does he have the treasure?”
“There is no treasure, King. It was all spent long ago. On sharp swords and shiny breastplates. Polites told me. I have seen him with his wife. They are very happy. Just three copper rings left,” she told him. “The price of a whore.”
In frustration Agamemnon made to strike her, but another fierce quake made them all stumble. Kassandra fell from the soldiers’ grip and slipped past the armored men and out of the temple. Agamemnon followed her, cursing.
She had not gone far. She was standing outside, staring at the Burned Isle, where dense black smoke was boiling from the summit. A thick layer of ash lay on the ground. Nearby Menelaus sat weeping beside the body of his sister. Both were covered in ash and looked like stone statues.
Kassandra glanced at Agamemnon. “You see, there is a great chamber under Thera, full of fire and burning rock. Perhaps it is where the god lives—I don’t know. But it has been growing for generations, and now it is about to burst from its restraints. Hot air and dust and rocks will come spewing out. Then, as the fire chamber empties, its roof will collapse and the sea will pour in. Seawater and fire are enemies, you see. They will battle to get away from each other; then the island will soar into the sky like a pebble thrown by a child. We will ride with it. It will be glorious!” She turned toward him with a brilliant smile, inviting him to join her rejoicing.
“The girl is demented,” Idomeneos cried, but his voice sounded thin and frightened.
The sky darkened, and Agamemnon looked up to see a huge flock of birds fly overhead toward the west, thousands of them blocking out the gray hazy light, their screaming voices like those of Harpies.
Kassandra waved at them, a childish gesture, her hand moving up and down. “Bye bye, birds,” she said. “Bye bye.” The Mykene king shuddered and felt panic tightening his chest.
“Everyone is waiting for me,” Kassandra told the kings happily as the ground shook violently again. “Mother is waiting for me. And Hektor and Laodike. They are just beyond.”
Suddenly she stood on her tiptoes and pointed to the Burned Isle. There was a noise like a thousand thunders, and a hot black pillar erupted from the top of the volcano and soared into the sky. The monstrous sound it made broke something in his ears, and Agamemnon screamed and fell to the ground as blood poured out of them. Hands to his head, he looked up to see the tower of black fire roaring higher and higher. The sound was intolerable, and the blast of heat from it scorched the skin of his face. Great boulders were flung from the volcano, soaring like pebbles through the sky to crash into the sea and onto the isle near them, destroying buildings and narrowly missing the temple. The sound was appalling, and Agamemnon thought he would go mad from the power of it.
Kassandra was the only one still standing, without fear as she gazed at the tower of fire rising. It seemed to go up forever. Then it slowed, and the top of it started flowing outward, spreading its canopy of smoke and ash wider and wider, darkening the earth and blotting out the sun.
Kassandra looked down at Agamemnon compassionately. She seemed to have grown taller and stronger, and he wondered why he had thought her ugly. Her face was radiant, and she blazed with beauty like a sword in a flame.
Then she pointed again, and from the top of the volcano a red-brown flow like a glowing avalanche started to belch out and move down the slopes. It slithered swiftly over the black rocks of the Burned Isle and soon reached the sea. Agamemnon got to his feet with difficulty, for they were all knee-deep in warm ash. He saw that his ships were under oars, beating their way as fast as they could row toward the harbor entrance. The cowards are leaving me, he screamed inside his head. He saw Idomeneos shouting but could not hear what he said.
Agamemnon thought the red-hot avalanche would stop when it reached the sea, but instead it carried straight on, rolling across the surface toward the fleet. Long before it reached the first ship, the vessel burst into flames, burning hotly before it was engulfed in the hideous flow. One by one the galleys were overtaken and destroyed, their crews blackened and charred in an instant. When it reached the base of the cliffs on which they stood, the rolling avalanche of fire started to crawl up toward them, but then it slowed to a halt. Agamemnon breathed out shakily.
His relief lasted only for a few heartbeats. There was another terrifying sound from deep in the earth beneath them. As he watched, he saw the sea in the harbor dent in the middle, and an enormous whirlpool started to form, sluggishly at first and then with greater speed. There was another great noise, an army of thunders, and the sea suddenly fell away from them, swallowed instantly into the earth. The entire fleet of charred ships disappeared in moments as sea rushed into the harbor to pour into the hole in the world.
There was a building roar, and the ground started to shake wildly.
Agamemnon’s last sight was of Kassandra, a joyous smile on her face, as she waved goodbye.
He closed his eyes.
Then the island rose up under them and flung the kings screaming into the sky.
Not far to the west Helikaon stood on the aft deck of the Xanthos, his arm draped loosely over the steering oar, looking up at the sail stretched taut against the wind. He was at his happiest when the black horse danced over the waves. Although there were sixty or more men lounging about on the decks, gossiping, eating and drinking, laughing and telling tall tales, he felt alone with his ship when she was under sail. He could feel the shift and groan of the timbers beneath his bare feet, h
ear the finest vibrations of the huge sail, and sense through the oak of the steering oar the valiant heart of the galley. You are the queen of the seas, he told his ship as she cut through the waves, rising and falling with grace and power.
His eyes moved, as they always did when given the chance, to Andromache. She was sitting on the forward deck under the yellow canopy. The boys were curled up beside her. They had been running around the ship all morning, delighted to have the oarsmen at their beck and call to play games with them and tell them tales of the sea. Now, tired out, they were both asleep under the canopy, protected from the noonday sun.
Andromache was gazing back toward Thera, though the island was now out of sight. Helikaon knew her heart now and understood that she did not regret leaving Kassandra, as the girl had asked. Yet it had made Andromache sad to leave her sister to a lonely death, cared for only by the old priestess. Helikaon had spent some time since their departure cursing himself for not climbing the cliffs to fetch the girl, then had put those feelings aside ruthlessly. The decision was made. He always would remember Kassandra with love, but she was now part of the past.
He left the steering oar to Oniacus and walked down the length of the ship, drawn helplessly toward his lover. He made himself pause as if to inspect the racks of weapons—swords, shields, and bows and arrows—stored beneath the rails. As usual, thanks to Oniacus’ watchful eye, they were all immaculate, cleaned and ready for action if needed.
“Where will we beach tonight, Golden One?” asked gray-bearded Naubolos, a veteran who had sailed on the Xanthos since the launch in Kypros and on the Ithaka before that.
“At Pig’s Head Cove or on Kalliste if the east wind is our friend.”
There were shouts and grunts of approval from the men. Even before the war, the whores on Kalliste had been more welcoming than any others on the Great Green. Now there were fewer ships sailing these waters, and a galley the size of the Xanthos would receive an enthusiastic greeting.
Helikaon moved on. He checked the great chests holding the nephthar balls in their protective cocoons of straw. There were only ten left. He frowned, then dismissed the problem. It could not be helped. There was a good chance they would reach their final destination without seeing another ship, let alone a hostile one.
His feet registered a minute shift in the direction of the ship, and he looked back along the deck. Oniacus was steering the galley to catch the wind as it shifted slightly north. Helikaon gazed back the way they had come. There was no longer any sign of the Bloodhawk. The Xanthos’ greater speed had left the smaller ship farther and farther behind.
“How are you, Agrios?” he asked a leathery old sailor sitting on the deck with his back to a rowing bench. The man had suffered a terrible injury to his arm in a battle off Kios in the summer when a Mykene warship had plowed along the side of the Xanthos, ripping into its oars. Agrios had been hit by an oar as it whipped back at him before he could get out of the way. His arm had been broken in so many places that it could not be set, so it was cut off close to the shoulder. The old man had survived the amputation, and when he was recovered, Helikaon allowed him to return to the rowing benches, for Agrios swore he could row as well with one arm as most men could with two.
The man nodded. “All the better for knowing we’ll be on Kalliste tonight.” He grinned, winking.
Helikaon laughed. “Only if the wind stays fair,” he said.
He walked to the forward deck, aware that Andromache was watching his every step. She looked wonderful today, he thought, in a saffron robe cut roughly off at the knees. She was wearing the finely carved amber pendant he had given her, and the sparks of warmth in the stone matched the fire of her hair.
Her face was grave, though. “You are thinking of Kassandra,” he ventured.
“It is true that Kassandra is never far from my thoughts,” she confessed. “But at that moment I was thinking of you.”
“What were you thinking, goddess?” he asked, taking her hand and covering her palm with kisses.
She raised her eyebrows. “I was wondering how long we were to pretend we are not lovers,” she told him, smiling. “It seems I have my answer.”
Facing away from the crew, Helikaon felt a hundred eyes on his back, and he heard the lull as the men stopped talking. Then, almost instantly, the normal chatter resumed as if nothing had happened.
“It seems they are not surprised,” he told her.
She shook her head, her face glowing with happiness.
“Golden One!” Helikaon turned to see Praxos running down the deck toward them. The boy was trying to point backward as he ran. “There is a storm, I think!”
Helikaon looked quickly in the direction in which Praxos was pointing, toward Thera. On the clear line of the horizon there was a small dark smudge. It was like a storm but not a storm. As he watched, it rose into the shape of a dark tower. A feeling of dread formed in the pit of his stomach. There was a distant roll of thunder, and all the crewmen turned to watch the black tower rising ominously into the pale sky.
Heartbeats passed as it climbed and climbed. Then, suddenly, it was consumed by a massive eruption of fire and flame, filling the sky to the east. The sound of the eruption hit them like the noise of thunder increased a hundredfold, like the deep blast of Ares’ war horn or the crack of doom itself.
“It is Thera!” someone cried. “The god has burst his chains!”
Helikaon glanced at Andromache. Her face was as white as clean linen, and there was fear in her eyes. She pointed to the horizon, and he looked again. The cloud of the explosion, spreading swiftly out and upward, darkened the eastern sky. But it was vanishing mysteriously from sea level upward. Baffled, Helikaon gazed at the horizon. It was rising as he watched.
With awful clarity he knew what was happening.
“Take in the sail!” he shouted. “Get to your oars now!”
He ordered Oniacus to turn the ship around, and as his second in command shouted to the rowers, Helikaon grabbed a length of rope from the deck. With his bronze dagger he sliced it in three pieces. He thrust them at Andromache.
“Get the boys onto the lower deck and tie them securely to something solid. Then tie yourself down.”
She stared at him. “Why?” she asked. “What is happening?”
“Just do it, woman!” he bellowed at her.
Pointing toward the high horizon, he addressed the crew. “That is a wall of water coming toward us, as high as a mountain! It will be upon us in moments. We must all tie ourselves down. Anyone who is not securely tied will die! We will row straight into the wave, and the Xanthos will climb it! It is our one chance!”
Now they all could see it for what it was, a dark line of horizon much too high in the sky, coming toward the ship with the speed of a swooping eagle. In front of it was a huge flock of gulls, flying frantically away from the great wave. As they passed over the Xanthos, the sky darkened, their screams beat on the men’s ears, and the thrashing of their wings created a wind that rocked the ship.
Rowers were at their benches, rowing for all they were worth to turn the great galley around. The other crewmen were tearing down the lines, cutting lengths for themselves and the oarsmen. All kept glancing fearfully as the giant wave bore down on them.
Helikaon grabbed some rope and ran to the aft deck, where Oniacus needed all his strength to brace the steering oar to one side. The Xanthos was turning in a tight circle. Helikaon lent his strength to the oar and took another swift look at the wave. It was mountainous and getting bigger by the moment, filling the whole of his vision. Can the ship climb it? he asked himself. All he was certain of was that it must not hit them beam-on. It would destroy the galley in a moment. Their only hope was to steer straight into it. The oars and the wooden fins Khalkeus had bolted to the hull would keep the ship stable.
“We will tie the oar centrally,” he told Oniacus, “but it will need the strength of both of us as well to keep it steady.”
“If we can do it at all,” his
friend replied grimly, his terror palpable.
The ship was heading into the wave now. Helikaon cut the rope in half, then looped half around his waist, tying it to the side rails. He did the same thing for Oniacus, who was holding the oar in a death grip.
“The nephthar, Golden One!” he cried suddenly. “What about the clay balls? If we survive this, they will be smashed and broken.”
Helikaon looked up to the wave, which was nearly upon them. “They will be washed away,” he shouted. “That is the least of our worries.”
The prow of the ship began to rise as the swell in front of the wave reached them. All along the deck Helikaon saw the wide eyes of terrified men leaning into the oars, horror at their backs, rowing like men possessed.
“Row, you cowsons! Row for your lives!” he bellowed at them.
The wave hit them, and Helikaon felt the whole ship shudder as if she were snapping in two. Then there was a hideous groan, and she started to climb. It is not possible, he told himself. The wave is too high. He fought down the panic in his chest. If any ship can do it, the Xanthos can, he thought.
Then they were underwater. Helikaon could see nothing but swirling sea all around, and he felt the air punched out of his chest as the galley lurched to one side, throwing him against the steering oar. He was tossed about like a rag doll, concentrating only on keeping his hands to the oar, holding it tight, feeling Oniacus’ hands there, too. It was impossible to steer. All they could do was hold on tight and try not to drown.
For a moment he emerged from the water and caught a terrifying glimpse of the ship suspended vertically above him, the oarsmen rowing like madmen, though most of the oars were out of the water. Then the sea came over his head again, and all he could glimpse was the blue and green of its depths.
The ship lurched and spun, pitched and heaved. It went on so long that Helikaon thought it would never stop. He no longer could tell which way was up or down or if he was rising in the sea or sinking through the depths. He could not tell if the hideous sounds in his ears were those of the ship groaning, the men crying, or his tortured lungs screaming.