“You fought bravely, and I am in your debt, Attalus.”
Turning away from the man, Helikaon shouted instructions to the crew. “Fetch rope! I want all prisoners tied to the deck rails. And throw out lines for any of the other crew who are still in the water.”
Crewmen swarmed down from the Xanthos, and the Mykene were herded along the deck, their wrists roped to the rails. Then Helikaon ordered the body of Zidantas to be lowered to the galley. Wrapped in a blood-stained blanket, it was laid at the center of the deck. Helikaon removed the mutilated head from the sack and placed it at the severed neck. Then he took a golden ring from the pouch at his side and placed it in Zidantas’ mouth, a gift for the Ferryman of Hades to carry him across the dark river.
There was silence as he knelt by the body. After a moment he rose and ran his eyes over the prisoners.
“This was Zidantas,” he said. “Some of you knew him for a brief time. Some of you may even have been the men who overpowered him and dragged him to your camp. He was a good man, father to six daughters. He sailed the Great Green for longer than most of you have lived. He was a Hittite, and we shall send him to his gods in the Hittite manner. All of you will attend the ceremony, and during it you will have time to consider your part in his murder.”
II
Argurios sat alone on the beach for a while, lost in thought. The actions of Kolanos were yet another stain on the honor of the Mykene. The torture and murder of Zidantas had been sadistic and unnecessary, yet it would not be Kolanos alone who suffered for the events at the Fat King’s bay. When Agamemnon learned that Argurios had saved the Golden One, he would be furious. Argurios found himself wishing he had never agreed to walk with Helikaon. Had he remained on the beach, the assassination might have succeeded, and that good man Zidantas would even now be preparing to sail home to his wife and daughters.
And how could young Glaukos have made such a decision, aligning himself with savage murderers?
It was a mystery to Argurios, and it saddened him.
Just then he saw the boy Xander nervously approaching him. He was carrying a wooden bowl in one hand and a cheese-topped loaf in the other. “I thought you might be hungry, sir,” he said.
Argurios stared hard at the freckle-faced boy, then nodded. “I am hungry.” Taking the bowl, he began to eat. It was a thin stew, but the spices were pleasantly hot on the tongue. The bread was fresh. He looked up and saw the boy still hovering. “There was something else?” he asked him.
“I wanted to thank you for saving me.”
Argurios had always been uncomfortable around the young, even when young himself. Now he did not know what to say. He looked at the boy. He was pale and obviously frightened. “Do not fear me,” said Argurios. “I do not harm children.”
“I wish I had never come here,” Xander said suddenly. “I wish I’d stayed at home.”
“I have had such wishes,” Argurios told him. “Childhood is secure, but when the child becomes a man, he sees the world for what it is. I grieve for Zidantas, too. Not all Mykene are like the men who killed him.”
“I know that,” said Xander, sitting on the sand at Argurios’ feet. “You saved me. And you nearly died doing that. I was terrified. Were you?”
“Death holds no terror for me, boy. It comes to all men. The lucky ones die heroically, and their names are remembered. The unlucky ones die slowly, their hair turning white, their limbs becoming frail.”
Argurios finished the soup and the bread. Leaving the empty bowl on the rock beside him, he stood, took up his helmet, and walked over to where the men of the Penelope were gathered, watching the bay, wondering which ship, or ships, would return victorious.
Odysseus was sitting apart from his men, talking to the green-garbed Andromache. She was a striking woman. Argurios was even more uncomfortable around women than he was around children, but he needed to speak to Odysseus. As he walked forward, he realized young Xander was beside him. The boy looked up and smiled cheerfully. Argurios was tempted to scowl at him and order him gone, but the openness of the smile disarmed him.
He approached Odysseus, who glanced up and gestured for him to sit. Then he introduced Andromache.
Argurios struggled for something to say. “I am sorry you had to witness such a grisly scene,” he said, recalling the moment Helikaon had drawn the head from the sack.
“I have seen severed heads before,” she replied coolly.
Argurios could think of no way to prolong the conversation, nor did he wish to. He turned his attention to Odysseus. “My mission is to Troy,” he said. “May I sail upon the Penelope?”
“Don’t know as I have room this trip,” Odysseus said coldly.
“He saved my life,” Xander said suddenly.
“Did he, now? There’s a tale I’d like to hear.”
Argurios had turned on his heel and was walking away. “Wait, wait!” said Odysseus. “Let me hear what the lad has to say. Go on, boy. Tell us this tale of daring.” Argurios paused. He had no wish to remain with the hostile Ithakan, but he needed passage to Troy. Ill at ease, he stood as Xander blurted out the story of the storm and the broken rail and how he had swung over the raging sea. Odysseus listened intently, then looked Argurios in the eye. His expression was more friendly now. “You are a surprising man, Argurios. There will always be room on the Penelope for surprising men. It will be cramped, though.”
“That does not concern me.”
Someone called out, and men on the beach came to their feet.
Out in the bay they saw the Xanthos easing her way through the shallows. She was towing a war galley. Mystified by this turn of events, Argurios wandered down to the sea’s edge and stared out at the oncoming ships. The crewmen of the galley were lining the rails. As they came closer, Argurios realized there were around fifty men roped and tied. He saw Glaukos bound at the prow.
The Xanthos began to turn, heading out into the deeper water of the bay.
“What is he doing?” asked Argurios. Odysseus did not reply, but the Mykene warrior saw that his expression was sorrowful and his eyes had a haunted look. Concerned now, Argurios swung back to watch the ships. Once into the deeper water, the Xanthos let slip the towing ropes and the galley slowly settled. The Xanthos pulled away.
Then Argurios saw something dark fly up from the Xanthos to crash upon the deck of the galley. Several more arced through the sky. The bound men began to shout and cry out and struggle at the ropes. A score of fire arrows flashed from the Xanthos.
A great whoosh of flame billowed up from the galley. Screams followed, and Argurios saw Glaukos begin to burn. Fire swept over his tunic and armor, and then his hair was ablaze. Now the screams were awful to hear as men burned like candles all along the deck. Black smoke billowed over the sea. Argurios could not believe what he was watching. At least fifty helpless men were dying in agony. One man managed to free himself and leap into the sea. Amazingly, when he surfaced the flames were still consuming him.
All along the beach there was silence as the stunned crowd watched the magical fires burning the galley and its crew.
“You asked me what I feared,” said Odysseus. Argurios saw that he was talking to Andromache. “Now you have seen it.”
“This is monstrous,” said Argurios as agonized screams continued to echo from the stricken ship.
“Aye, it is,” Odysseus agreed sadly.
Black smoke was swirling over the doomed galley as the Xanthos slowly made her way back out to sea.
XIV
THE SONG OF FAREWELL
As the long afternoon wore on the Xanthos continued to prowl the coastline toward the south, seeking the galley of Kolanos. Gershom stood at the prow, his bandaged hands still burning from the vinegar and olive oil salve Oniacus had applied. Alongside him Oniacus was staring at the southern horizon, seeking sign of the ship they were chasing. The quiet crewman Attalus was beside him. Twice they had caught glimpses of the galley in the far distance, but a mist had fallen over the sea, and visib
ility was growing poorer by the moment.
“We have lost him,” said Oniacus, and Gershom believed he heard relief in his voice.
He glanced back toward the helm, where Helikaon stood at the steering oar. No one was with him, and the rowers were working silently. There had been no songs that day, no laughter or idle chatter as the Xanthos powered on in search of its prey. At first Gershom had thought the somber mood had been caused by the death of Zidantas, but as the day wore on he realized there was more to it. The crewmen were tense and uneasy. Gershom struggled to find reasons for their disquiet. Did they fear another battle? It seemed unlikely, for he had seen them fight, and they were not fearful men. Also, they had had very few losses in the sea battle. The steersman, Epeus, had been shot through the back but had held the Xanthos on course until they had boarded the enemy galley. Then he had collapsed and died. Three other men had been killed, but two of them were new crewmen, apparently, and had not been aboard long enough to forge deep friendships. The lack of victory joy made no sense to the powerful Egypteian.
Finally he swung toward Oniacus. “You sea peoples celebrate victory in a most strange fashion,” he said. “Whenever we win a battle there is song and laughter. Men brag of their heroic deeds. They feel good to be alive. Yet I feel I am on a ship of the dead.”
Oniacus looked at him quizzically. “Did the sight of those burning sailors not touch you at all, Gyppto?”
Gershom was baffled. How could anyone mourn the deaths of enemies? “They attacked us,” he said. “We triumphed.”
“We murdered them—cruelly. They were men of the sea. They had families and loved ones.”
Gershom felt anger touch him. What nonsense was this? “Then they should have stayed home with their loving families,” he said. “And not set out to torture an honest man to death. When a lion attacks, you don’t stop to consider whether he has cubs to feed. You just kill him.”
“Can’t argue with that,” agreed Attalus.
Oniacus cast them both an angry look. “The man who killed Ox is Kolanos. He is the one who should have suffered burning. We should have sunk the galley and freed the crew.”
Gershom laughed. “Free them? So they could attack again? Had they captured the Xanthos, would they have let you go?”
“No, they would not,” said the curly-haired oarsman. “They would have killed us. But that is what separates the evil from the righteous. When we behave like them, we become like them. And then what is our justification for being? By accepting their moral standards we discard our right to condemn them.”
“Ah, we are talking philosophy, then,” said Gershom. “Very well. Once, a long time ago, there was a rebellion in Egypte. The pharaoh captured the ringleaders. His advisers urged him to kill them all. Instead he listened to the grievances of the men who rose against him and sought to address them. They were all released. The pharaoh even lowered the taxes in the rebellious areas. He, too, was a man of philosophy. A few years later the rebels rose again and this time defeated the pharaoh and slew him in battle. They also slaughtered his wives and his children. He had reigned for less than five years. One of the ringleaders then became pharaoh in his place. He, too, suffered insurrections, but he crushed them, killing all who went against him. Not only did he kill them, but all their families, too. He reigned for forty-six years.”
“What point are you making, Gyppto? That savagery is the way forward? That the most ruthless men will always succeed and those with compassion are doomed?”
“Of course. It is a sound historical argument. However, my point would be that the danger lies in the extremes. A man who is always cruel is evil; a man who is always compassionate will be taken advantage of. It is more a question of balance, or harmony, if you will. Strength and compassion, ruthlessness allied sometimes to mercy.”
“Today was more than ruthless,” said Oniacus. “I never thought Helikaon to be so vengeful.”
“It was more than revenge,” said Attalus.
“How so?”
“We could have burned them at sea, then set out more swiftly in search of Kolanos. Instead we towed the galley back into the bay so that all could witness the horror. Every sailor on that beach will carry the story. Within a few weeks there will not be a port on the Great Green that has not heard the tale. That, I think, was the point of it.”
“So that the whole world can know that Helikaon and his men are savages?”
Attalus shrugged. “If you were a Mykene sailor, would you want to go against Helikaon now?”
“No,” admitted Oniacus, “I wouldn’t. Equally, I don’t believe many men will want to serve with him, either. When we put back into Troy, I think a number of the crew will choose to leave his service.”
“Will you?” asked Gershom.
Oniacus sighed. “No. I am Dardanian, and Helikaon is my lord. I will remain loyal.”
It was warm, a light breeze blowing from the south. Dolphins were swimming alongside the ship, and Gershom watched them for a while. The mist grew thicker, and they heard Helikaon call out for the oarsmen to slow their pace. Leaving Attalus at the prow, Oniacus strode back along the deck. Gershom followed him, moving past crewmen still manning the fire throwers. The two men climbed the steps to the stern deck. Helikaon’s face was an expressionless mask.
“We need to find a beach, Golden One,” said Oniacus. “It will be dusk soon.”
For the next hour the Xanthos crept along the cliff line, finally angling into a deep crescent-shaped bay. The beach beyond was deserted, and Helikaon told the fire hurler crews to step down and stow the nephthar balls. Once that had been done the Xanthos was beached, stern on.
Helikaon ordered some twenty of the crew to remain on board just in case the Mykene galley found the same bay, though Gershom sensed he did not expect such an eventuality.
Ashore several fires were lit, and groups of sailors moved off inland in search of extra firewood and fresh water. Gershom stayed aboard. His hands were still too sore to grip the trailing ropes and climb down to the sand. Even so, he felt his strength beginning to return. Helikaon, too, remained on the Xanthos. As the evening wore on and the cookfires were lit, the atmosphere remained muted.
By the time the mist had cleared and the stars were bright in the night sky, one or two of the sailors had fallen asleep. Most remained wakeful, however, and Gershom, who had dozed for a while on the rear deck, saw that they were gathered in a large group and were talking in low voices.
Helikaon brought Gershom some food, a round of cheese and some salt-dried meat. He was also carrying a water skin. “How are your hands?” he asked.
“I heal fast,” said Gershom, taking the food gratefully. The cheese was full-flavored, the meat spiced and hot on the tongue. Helikaon stood at the stern, gazing down on the beach and the gathered men. Gershom watched him for a while, remembering the sight of him leaping down onto the enemy deck. For the crew it would be the memory of the burning men that remained from that battle. For Gershom it was the sight of the young prince in battle armor cleaving the Mykene ranks. His sword style had been ruthlessly efficient, his attack unstoppable. He had radiated a sense of invincibility. This, more than anything else, had cowed the Mykene into surrender.
“I fear your crew are unhappy,” said Gershom, breaking the silence.
“They are good men, brave and honest. Zidantas was a fine judge. He only hired men with heart. Tonight they will be thinking of him. As I am.”
“They will be thinking of more than that, I think.”
Helikaon nodded. “Yes, more than that,” he agreed. “You fought well today, Gershom. Zidantas would have been proud of the way you wielded his club. If you wish to stay in my service, you can.”
“I was thinking of leaving the ship in Troy.”
“Many will,” said Helikaon. “You, however, ought to think about the wisdom of such a decision.”
“Why would it not be wise?”
Helikaon turned away from the beach, and Gershom felt the power of his g
aze. “What crime did you commit in Egypte?”
“What would prompt such a question?” Gershom was evasive.
“You are a careful man, Gyppto, and that is a virtue I admire. Now, however, is not the time to be secretive. The Fat King told me that in every port Egypteian ambassadors have sought news of a powerful black-bearded runaway who might be calling himself Gershom. There is a great sum in gold for the man or men who deliver him to justice. So I ask again: What was your crime?”
Gershom’s heart sank. He had not realized, though he should have, that his grandfather would go to such lengths to capture him. “I killed two royal guardsmen,” he said.
“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 crewmen 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 take all my life, I will find him one day. Or he will be delivered to me.”