Lord of the
Silver Bow
Troy - 01
David Gemmell
PROLOGUE
To sleep is to die.
He clung to the driftwood as the raging seas hurled him high and then plunged him deep into the storm-dark valleys between the waves. Lightning flashed, followed by deafening thunderclaps. Another wave lashed him, spinning the driftwood, almost tearing him clear. Sharp splinters pierced his bleeding hands as he tightened his grip. Salt spray stung his swollen eyes.
Earlier in the night, after ferocious winds had swept the galley against hidden rocks, splintering the hull, four men had grasped this length of shattered deck. One by one the storm had leached out their strength and then plucked them loose, their despairing death cries swept away by the wind.
Now only the man called Gershom remained—thanks to arms and shoulders strengthened by months of labor in the copper mines of Kypros, wielding pick and hammer and bearing on his back sacks of ore. Yet even his prodigious strength was failing.
The sea lifted him once more, the length of decking pitching suddenly. Gershom hung on as a wave crashed over him.
The sea no longer felt cold. It seemed to him like a warm bath, and he could feel it calling to him: Rest now! Come with me! Sleep now! Sleep in the Great Green.
To sleep is to die, he told himself again, squeezing his bloodied hands against the jagged wood. Sharp, lancing pain cut through his exhaustion.
A body floated by head-down. A wave caught it, flipping the corpse. Gershom recognized the dead man. He had won three copper rings in the bone game the night before last, when the galley had been drawn up on a small stretch of beach below a line of towering cliffs. The sailor had been happy then. Three rings, though not a princely sum, was enough to purchase a good cloak or hire a young whore for the night. He did not look happy now, dead eyes staring up at the rain, mouth slack and open.
Another wave crashed over Gershom. Ducking his head against the planking, he hung on. The wave carried the dead man away, and Gershom saw the body sink below the water.
Lightning ripped across the sky once more, but the thunder did not come immediately. The wind eased, and the sea calmed. Gershom hitched himself across the driftwood, managing to lift his leg across the broken planks. Carefully he rolled to his back and shivered in the cold night air.
The rain was torrential, washing the salt from his face and eyes and beard. He stared at the sky. A shaft of moonlight showed through a break in the storm clouds. Looking to the left and right, he could see no sign of land. His chances of survival were bleak. All the trade ships held to the coastline. Few ventured out into deeper water.
The storm had arrived with sickening speed, strong winds gusting down from the high cliffs. The galley had been making for a bay where they would shelter for the night. Gershom, rowing on the starboard side, had not been worried at first. He knew nothing of the sea and thought this might be normal. Then, seeing the anxious looks on the faces of the rowers, he glanced back. The ferocity of the gusts increased, heeling the ship sideways and driving it farther from the shore. Gershom could see the headland that marked the entrance to the bay. It seemed so close. The rhythm of the rowers began to fail. Two oars crashed together on his side, throwing the line into disorder. One broke away. With the oars no longer working in unison, the galley turned beam-on to the wind, driven around by the rowers on the port side.
A large wave broke over the side, swamping Gershom and the starboard rowers. The heavily laden ship began to tip. Then it slid into a trough, and a second wave swamped it. Gershom heard a rending sound as planks gave way beneath the weight of the water. The sea surged in, and—driven down by the mass of its copper cargo—the galley sank within moments.
As he clung to the ruined decking, it occurred to Gershom that he probably had mined some of the copper that had doomed the ship he sailed on.
The stern face of his grandfather appeared in his mind. “You bring your troubles on yourself, boy.”
That was certainly true tonight.
On the other hand, Gershom reasoned, without the backbreaking labor in the mines he would not have built the strength to endure the power of the storm.
No doubt it would have pleased his grandfather to see Gershom working in the mine in those early days, his soft hands blistered and bleeding, to earn in a month what at home he would have spent in a heartbeat. By night, in a filthy dugout, he had slept beneath a single threadbare blanket as ants crawled on his weary flesh. No servant girls to tend his needs, no slaves to prepare his clothing. No heads bowed now as he passed. No one to flatter him. At the palace and the farms his grandfather owned all the women told him how wonderful he was, how masculine and strong. What a joy it was to be in his company. Gershom sighed. On Kypros the only available women for mine workers said exactly the same thing—as long as a man had copper rings to offer.
Lightning lit the sky to the south. Perhaps the storm is passing, he thought.
Thoughts of grandfather came again, and with them a sense of shame. He was being unfair to the man. He would not glory in Gershom’s downfall, any more than he would have taken pleasure from the public execution he had ordered for his grandson. Gershom had fled the city, heading out to the coast, where he took ship to Kypros.
He would have stayed on there in Kypros if he had not seen a group of Egypteians in the town a few days before. He had recognized two of them, both scribes to a merchant who had visited his grandfather’s palace. One of the scribes had stared at him. By then Gershom was thickly bearded, his hair long and unkempt, but he was not sure it was enough.
Gathering the last of the copper rings he had earned in the mine, he had wandered to the harbor and sat on the beach, staring out at the ships in the bay.
A bandy-legged old man approached him, his skin leathery, his face deeply lined. “Looking for sea work?” he asked.
“I could be.”
The man noted Gershom’s heavy accent. “Gyppto, are you?”
Gershom nodded.
“Good sailors, the Gypptos. And you have the shoulders of a fine oarsman.” The old man hunkered down, picked up a stone, and hurled it out over the waves. “Several ships looking for men.”
“How about that one?” Gershom asked, pointing to a huge, sleek double-decked galley at anchor out in the bay. It was beautiful, crafted from red oak, and he counted forty oars on the starboard side. In the fading sunlight the hull had a golden gleam. Gershom had never seen a ship so large.
“Only if you yearn for death,” said the old man. “It is too big.”
“Too big? Why is that bad?” Gershom asked.
“The great god Poseidon does not suffer large ships. He snaps them in two.”
Gershom laughed, thinking it was a jest.
The old man looked offended. “You obviously do not know the sea, young fellow,” he said stiffly. “Every year arrogant shipwrights build larger craft. Every year they sink. If not the gods, then what could cause such catastrophes?”
“I apologize, sir,” Gershom said, not wishing to cause further offense. “But that ship does not seem to be sinking.”
“It is the Golden One’s new ship,” said the man. “Built for him by a madman no one else would employ. It won’t have a full crew. Even the half-witted sailors around here have refused to serve on it. The Golden One has ferried in seamen from the outer islands to man it.” He chuckled. “Even some of them deserted as soon as they saw it—and they are known to be morons. No, it will sink when Poseidon swims beneath it.”
“Who is this Golden One?”
The old man looked surprised. “I would have thought that even the Gypptos would have heard of Helikaon.”
“I think I have
heard that name. Isn’t he a warrior of the sea? Did he not kill some Mykene pirate?”
The man seemed satisfied. “Aye, he is a great fighter.”
“Why do they call him the Golden One?”
“He is blessed with unholy luck. Every venture brings in riches, but I think he will have another name after that monstrosity sinks.” He fell silent for a moment. “However, we are drifting with the wind now. Let us return to our course. You need a ship.”
“What would you advise, my friend?”
“I know a merchant who has a twenty-oar galley—the Mirion—heading for Troy the day after tomorrow. He is short of men. For ten copper rings I’ll take you to him and offer a recommendation.”
“I don’t have ten copper rings.”
“You get twenty for a voyage, half when you sign on. Give me that half and I’ll tell him you are a master oarsman.”
“It won’t take them long to find out you lied.”
The old man shrugged. “By then you’ll be at sea and the merchant will still be on land. When you return, you’ll be a fine oarsman and no one will be the wiser.”
Gershom had heard of Troy, with its great golden walls and high towers. The hero Herakles was said to have fought a war there a hundred or so years earlier. “Have you been to Troy?” he asked the old man.
“Many times.”
“It is said to be beautiful.”
“Aye, it is good to look at. Expensive, though. Whores wear gold, and a man is considered poor if he doesn’t own a hundred horses. Copper rings won’t buy you a cup of water in Troy. There’s plenty of other stops on the way there and back, though, boy. There’s Miletos. Now, that is a place for sailors. Big-titted whores who’ll sell you their souls for a copper ring—not that their souls are what you’d be looking for. There’s some of the prettiest land you’ll ever see. You’ll have the time of your life, boy!”
Later that day, after the old sailor had found him a place on the Mirion’s crew, Gershom had wandered down to the seafront to look at the ship. He knew nothing about such vessels, but even to his untrained eye it seemed to be lying low in the water.
A huge man, bald-headed and with a forked black beard, approached him. “Seeking a berth?” he asked.
“No. I sail tomorrow on the Mirion.”
“She is overladen, and there’s a storm coming,” the big man said. “Ever worked on a galley?”
Gershom shook his head.
“Fine craft—if the captain keeps her shipshape, clean of barnacles, and if the crew is well trained. The Mirion has none of these advantages.” The man peered at him closely. “You should sail with me on the Xanthos.”
“The Death Ship? I think not.”
The bald man’s face darkened. “Ah, well, all men make choices, Gyppto. I hope you don’t come to rue yours.”
Another crack of thunder boomed in the heavens. The wind picked up again. Gershom carefully rolled onto his stomach and gripped the edges of the driftwood.
To sleep is to die.
I
THE CAVE OF WINGS
The twelve men in ankle-length cloaks of black wool stood silently at the cave mouth. They did not speak or move. The early autumn wind was unnaturally chilly, but they did not blow warm air on cold hands. Moonlight shimmered on their bronze breastplates and white-crested helmets, on their embossed wrist guards and greaves, and on the hilts of the short swords scabbarded at their waists. Yet despite the presence of cold metal against their bodies they did not shiver.
The night grew colder, and it began to rain as midnight approached. Hail fell and clattered against their armor, and still they did not move.
Then there came another warrior, tall and stooping, his cloak flapping in the fierce wind. He, too, was armored, though his cuirass was inlaid with gold and silver, as were the helmet and greaves he wore.
“Is he inside?” he asked, his voice deep.
“Yes, my king,” answered one of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep-set gray eyes. “He will summon us when the gods speak.”
“Then we wait,” replied Agamemnon.
The rain eased, and the king’s dark eyes scanned his Followers. Then he looked into the Cave of Wings. Deep within he could see firelight flickering on the craggy walls and even from there smell the acrid and intoxicating fumes from the prophecy flames. As he watched, the fire dimmed.
Unused to waiting, he felt his anger rise but masked it. Even a king was expected to be humble in the presence of the gods.
Every four years the king of Mykene and twelve of his most trusted Followers were expected to hear the words of the gods. The last time Agamemnon had stood there, he had just interred his father and his own reign was about to begin. He had been nervous then but was more so now, for the prophecies he had heard that first time had come true. He had become infinitely richer. His wife had borne him three healthy children, though all were girls. The armies of Mykene had been victorious in every battle, and a great hero had fallen.
But Agamemnon also recalled the journey his father had made to the Cave of Wings eight years previously and his ashen face on his return. He would not speak of the final prophecy, but one of the Followers told it to his wife, and the word spread. The seer had concluded with the words: “Farewell, Atreus King. You will not walk the Cave of Wings again.”
The great battle king had died one week before the next summoning.
A woman dressed all in black emerged from the cave. Even her head was covered by a veil of gauze. She did not speak but raised her hand, beckoning the waiting men. Agamemnon took a deep breath and led the group inside.
The entrance was narrow, and they removed their crested helmets and followed the woman in single file until at last they reached the remains of the prophecy fire. Smoke still hung in the air, and as he breathed, Agamemnon felt his heart beating faster. Colors became brighter, and small sounds—the creaking of leather, the shifting of sandaled feet on stone—were louder, almost threatening.
The ritual was hundreds of years old, based on an ancient belief that only on the point of death could a priest commune fully with the gods, and so every four years a man was chosen to die for the sake of the king.
Keeping his breathing shallow, Agamemnon looked down at the slender old man lying on a pallet bed. His face was pale in the firelight, his eyes wide and staring. The hemlock paralysis had begun. He would be dead within moments.
Agamemnon waited.
“Fire in the sky,” said the priest, “and a mountain of water touching the clouds. Beware the great horse, Agamemnon King.” The old man sagged back, and the woman in black knelt by him, lifting and supporting his frail body.
“Offer me no riddles,” Agamemnon said. “What of the kingdom? What of the might of the Mykene?”
The priest’s eyes blazed briefly, and Agamemnon saw anger there. Then it passed, and the old man smiled. “Your will prevails here, King. I would have offered you a forest of truth, but you wish to speak of a single leaf. Very well. Mighty still will you be when next you walk this corridor of stone. Father to a son.” He whispered something to the woman, who held a cup of water to his lips.
“And what dangers will I face?” Agamemnon asked.
The old priest’s body spasmed, and he cried out. Then he relaxed and stared up at the king. “A ruler is always in peril, Agamemnon King. Unless he be strong, he will be torn down. Unless he be wise, he will be overthrown. The seeds of doom are planted in every season and need neither sun nor rain to make them grow. You sent a hero to end a small threat, and thus you planted the seeds. Now they grow, and swords will spring from the earth.”
“You speak of Alektruon. He was my friend.”
“He was no man’s friend! He was a slaughterer and did not heed the warnings. He trusted in his cunning, his cruelty, and his might. Poor blind Alektruon. Now he knows the magnitude of his error. Arrogance laid him low, for no man is invincible. Those the gods would destroy they first make proud.”
“What more have yo
u seen?” said Agamemnon. “Speak now! Death is upon you.”
“I have no fear of death, King of Swords, King of Blood, King of Plunder. Nor should you. You will live forever, Agamemnon, in the hearts and minds of men. When your father’s name has fallen to dust and whispered away on the winds of time, yours will be spoken loud and often. When your line is a memory and all kingdoms have come to ashes, still your name will echo. This I have seen.”
“This is more to my liking,” said the king. “What else? Be swift now, for your time is short. Give a name to the greatest danger I will face.”
“You desire but a name? How… strange men are. You could have… asked for answers, Agamemnon.” The old man’s voice was fading and slurring. The hemlock was reaching his brain.
“Give me a name and I will know the answer.”
Another flash of anger lit the old man’s eyes, holding back the advancing poison. When he spoke, his voice was stronger. “Alektruon asked me for a name when I was but a seer and not blessed—as now—with the wisdom of the dying. I named Helikaon, the Golden One. And what did he do… this foolish man? He sailed the seas in search of Helikaon and brought his doom upon himself. Now you seek a name, Agamemnon King. It is the same name: Helikaon.” The old priest closed his eyes. The silence grew.
“Helikaon threatens me?” the king asked.
The dying priest spoke again. “I see men burning like candles, and… a ship of flame. I see a headless man… and a great fury. I see… I see many ships, like a great flock of birds. I see war, Agamemnon, long and terrible, and the deaths of many heroes.” With a shuddering cry he fell back into the arms of the veiled woman.
“Is he dead?” Agamemnon asked.
The woman felt for a pulse and then nodded. Agamemnon swore.
A powerful warrior moved alongside him, his hair so blond that it appeared white in the lamplight. “He spoke of a great horse, lord. The sails of Helikaon’s ships are all painted with the symbol of a rearing black horse.”