“Gypptos are not used to galley work, Ox,” Helikaon pointed out.
“This one would be,” Zidantas replied. “Strong. Heart like an oak. No give in him.”
A light breeze drifted across the deck. Helikaon walked to the starboard rail and saw that many of the small cargo boats were making their way back to the shore. The last of the trade items were being loaded. By the port rail he saw the youngest member of his crew, the boy Xander, sitting quietly awaiting orders. Another child of sorrow, thought Helikaon.
Just after dawn that morning, as he had prepared to depart, Phaedra had come to him. “You must see this,” she said, leading Helikaon through to the bedroom put aside for the sick woman. The child Phia had been given her own room but had crept back to be with her mother. The two were fast asleep, the child’s arm laid protectively across her mother’s chest.
“Thank you for taking them in,” he replied, as Phaedra quietly closed the door once more.
“You gave me all this, Helikaon. How can you thank me?”
“I must go. You understand that I meant what I told the child. They stay for as long as they wish.”
“Of course. It was lucky Phia found you. The healer said the mother would probably have been dead by morning.”
“If you need anything, I have instructed Parikles to supply it.”
“You take care. Of all my lovers you are the most dear to me.”
He had laughed then and drawn her into an embrace, lifting her from her feet and swinging her around. “And your friendship is beyond price,” he said.
“Just as well my body isn’t,” she responded. “Otherwise I might have been living like Phia’s mother in that hovel.”
Smiling at the memory, he scanned the ship. The two Mykene passengers were standing on the port side. Both wore armor and had swords scabbarded at their hips. The older of them, the chisel-bearded Argurios, stared up at him, his gaze openly malevolent.
You would like to kill me, Helikaon thought. To avenge Alektruon. But you will come at me face-to-face, Argurios. No dagger in the back, no poison in the cup. The young man beside Argurios spoke then, and the warrior swung to face him. Helikaon continued to watch him. Argurios was not a big man, though his arms were heavily muscled. They were also crisscrossed with many scars of combat. Stories of heroes were told in every port on the Great Green, spread by sailors who loved tales of combat and bravery. Argurios was featured in many of those tales. He had fought in battles all across the western lands, from Sparta in the south to Thessaly in the north and even to the borders of Thraki. All the stories told of his courage, and not one spoke of rape, torture, or assassination.
Helikaon’s thoughts swung back to the man who had followed him in Kypros. He had thought he had the assassin trapped at Phaedra’s house. Zidantas and four other men were waiting beyond the wall. Yet he had avoided them all. Ox said he had disappeared, as if by magic. Helikaon did not believe in magic. The assassin was highly skilled—like the man who had killed Helikaon’s father. No one had seen him, either. He had entered the palace, made his way to the king’s apartments, and cut his throat. He had also—inexplicably—sliced away his father’s right ear. Then he had left. Not one of the guards had seen him. Not one of the servants had noted any strangers present.
Perhaps he, too, was being hunted by such a man.
He saw the fork-bearded Zidantas approaching, followed by two senior crewmen.
Zidantas climbed to the rear deck. “We are ready, Golden One,” he said. Helikaon nodded. Ox swung away. “Ready the oars! Stand by the sail!” he bellowed. “Raise the anchors!”
The crewmen moved swiftly to their places, the anchor men fore and aft, hauling on the thick ropes, lifting the great stone anchors from the seabed.
Helikaon glanced at the young boy Xander. He was looking frightened, his eyes wide and staring. He kept glancing back at the shore.
“By the mark of one!” shouted Ox. The banks of oars lifted and dipped.
And the great ship began to glide serenely across the bay.
III
For the twelve-year-old Xander the trip on the Xanthos represented the greatest adventure of his life. For as long as he could remember he had dreamed of sailing upon the Great Green. High in the Kypriot hills, as he tended his grandfather’s goats or helped his mother and sisters prepare paints for the pottery they traded in the settlement, he would imagine being on a ship, feeling the swell of the sea beneath his feet. Often, as he wandered along the high ground, he would stop and stare longingly at the vessels heading south toward Egypte or east to Ugarit—or even to Miletos and the legendary Troy with its towers of solid gold.
He remembered his father, Akamas, and the other sailors launching the Ithaka. He had stood with his grandfather on the beach as the galley floated clear and watched the oarsmen take up their positions. His father was a great rower, powerful and untiring. He was also, as Grandfather often said, “a good man to have beside you in a storm.”
Xander recalled the last farewell with agonizing clarity. His father had stood and waved, his red hair glinting like fire in the dawn light. He had died days later in the battle with the savage Mykene pirate Alektruon. Xander knew he had died bravely, defending his friends and his ship. The Golden One had come to their house in the hills and had sat with Xander and told him of his father’s greatness. He had brought gifts for Mother and Grandfather and had talked quietly with them both. In this he did them great honor, for Helikaon was the son of a king. He was also a demigod.
Grandfather scoffed at the story. “All these nobles claim descent from the gods,” he said. “But they are men like you and me, Xander. Helikaon is better than most,” he admitted. “Not many highborns would take the trouble to visit the bereaved.” He had turned away, and Xander had seen that he was crying. And he had cried, too.
After a while Grandfather put his arm around Xander’s shoulders. “No shame in tears, boy. Your father deserved tears. Good man. I was proud of him always, as I will be proud of you. Next year Helikaon says he will take you in his crew, and you will learn the ways of the sea. You will be a fine, brave man, like your father, and you will bring honor to our family.”
“Will I be an oarsman, Grandfather?”
“Not for a while, lad. You are too short. But you’ll grow. And you’ll grow strong.”
The year had dragged by, but at last the great new ship was ready, and the crew began to muster. Grandfather had walked with him to the port just before dawn, filling him with so much advice that it seemed to be running out of Xander’s ears. “Look to Zidantas” was one comment he remembered. “Good man. Your father spoke well of him. Never shirk any duty Ox gives you. Do your best always.”
“I will, Grandfather.”
The old man had gazed at the great ship with its two banks of oars and its colossal mast. Then he had shaken his head. “Be lucky, Xander, and be brave. You will find that bravery and luck are often bedfellows.”
Xander had been rowed out to the ship just as the sun appeared in the east, its light turning the Xanthos to pale gold. It was a beautiful sight, and Xander felt his heart surge with joy. This wondrous vessel was to be his ship. He would learn to be a great seaman, like his father. Grandfather would be proud of him, and Mother, too.
The small rowing vessel came alongside the ship, under the raised bank of oars. There were three other crewmen being ferried out, and they tossed up their sacks of belongings and scaled ropes to the deck. Xander would have done the same, but a sturdy rower moved alongside him. “Up you go, shortshanks,” he said, lifting Xander up to the lowest oar port. He had scrambled through and fallen over a narrow rowing seat.
It was dark belowdecks and cramped, but as Xander’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the oarsmen’s narrow seats and the planking against which they would brace their legs for the pull. Putting down his bag, he sat in a rowing seat and stretched out his legs. Grandfather was right. He was too short to brace himself. Next year, though, he thought, I will be tall
enough. Gathering his bag, he made his way to the upper hatch and climbed out.
There were already sailors on board and two passengers, wearing armor. The oldest was a grim-faced bearded man with cold, hard eyes. Xander had seen men like them before. They were Mykene, the same race as the pirates who had killed his father. Their armies roamed the western lands, plundering towns and cities, taking slaves and gold. Mykene pirates often crossed the sea to raid settlements along the coastline.
Grandfather hated them. “They are a blood-hungry people, and they will one day come to dust,” he had said.
The main cargo hatch was open, and Xander saw sailors carrying goods down into the hold: big clay amphorae, filled with wine or spices; large packages of pottery plates, bound in rawhide and protected by outer layers of dried bark. There were weapons, too, axes and swords, shields and helmets. Seamen with ropes were hauling up other goods. Xander moved forward to peer down into the hold. It was deep. A man came up the steps and almost bumped into him. “Be careful, boy,” he said as he moved past. Xander backed away from the working crew.
He wandered to the deck rail and stared back at the beach, where his grandfather still stood. The old man saw him and waved. Xander waved back, suddenly fearful. He was about to go on a voyage, and the immensity of the adventure threatened to overwhelm him.
Then a massive hand settled on his shoulder. Xander jumped and swung around. An enormous bald-headed man with a forked black beard stood there.
“I am Zidantas,” he said. “You are the son of Akamas?”
“I am Xander.”
The giant nodded. “Your father spoke of you with some pride. On this voyage you will learn how to be useful. You are too small to row and too young to fight, so you will help those who can do those things. You will carry water to the rowers and perform any tasks asked of you. When my other duties permit I will show you how to tie knots, how to reef the sail, and so forth. Other than that you will keep out of the way and watch what men do. That is how we learn, Xander. It will be some time before we are ready to sail. It is taking far longer to load than we expected, and the wind is against us. So find somewhere out of the way and wait until the sail has been set. Then come to me on the rear deck.”
Zidantas strode away, and the fear of the unknown returned to Xander. Too young to fight, Zidantas had said. What if they were attacked by pirates? What if he was to die like his father or drown in the Great Green? Suddenly his tiny room at his grandfather’s house seemed a wonderful place to be. He looked over the side again and saw Grandfather walking away up the long hill.
Time passed and tempers among the men grew short as the difficulties of hauling goods aboard so high a vessel became more and more vexing. A boat rowed out to them bringing a long fishing net, and this was used to raise the more fragile cargo to the deck. Arguments flared, and then two sailors dropped a large wine amphora. The clay shattered, and thick red wine flowed across the planking. A fight started when one of the two threw a punch at the other, calling him an idiot. The two men grappled. Zidantas stepped in, grabbing each by the tunic and dragging them apart. Other men had begun to shout encouragement to the fighters, and the atmosphere was tense.
Then, in an instant, all activity ceased and silence fell on the crew.
Xander saw the Golden One climb over the side and step onto his ship. He was bare-chested and wearing a simple leather kilt. He carried no sword or weapon, yet his presence quieted the crew, who shuffled back to work.
Xander saw him walk over to where Zidantas was still holding the two men, though they were no longer struggling. “We are losing time, Ox,” he said. “And there is still cargo on the beach.”
Zidantas pushed the men away. “Clear up this mess,” he told them.
Helikaon glanced at Xander. “Are you ready to be a sailor, son of Akamas?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Are you frightened?”
“A little,” he admitted.
“A great man once told me there can be no courage without fear,” Helikaon said. “He was right. Remember that when your belly trembles and your legs grow weak.”
IV
THE MADMAN FROM MILETOS
I
It always irritated Khalkeus when he heard himself described as the Madman from Miletos. He hated the simple inaccuracy of the statement. He was not from Miletos. To be called a madman bothered him not at all.
He stood on the starboard side of the bireme’s central deck, watching as sailors hauled up the great stone anchors. It was close to midday, and mercifully, the cargo was now loaded. Helikaon’s arrival had brought a fresh sense of urgency to the crew, and the Xanthos was preparing to leave the bay.
A gust of wind caught Khalkeus’ wide-brimmed straw hat, flipping it from his head. He tried to catch it, but a second gust lifted it high, spinning it over the side. The hat sailed over the shimmering blue water, twisting and turning. Then, as the wind died down, it flopped to the surface and floated.
Khalkeus stared at it longingly. His once thick and tightly curled red hair was thinning now and sprinkled with gray. There was a bald patch on the crown of his head, which would burn raw and bleed under harsh sunlight.
An oarsman on the deck below, seeing the floating hat, angled his oar blade beneath it, seeking to lift it clear. He almost succeeded, but the wind blew again, and the hat floated away. A second oarsman tried. Khalkeus heard laughter from belowdecks, and “catching the hat” quickly became a game, oars clacking against one another. Within moments the straw hat, hammered by broad-bladed oars, had lost its shape. Finally it was lifted clear as a torn and soggy mess and brought back aboard.
A young sailor pushed open a hatch and climbed to the upper deck, bearing the dripping ruin to where Khalkeus stood. “We rescued your hat,” he said, struggling not to laugh.
Khalkeus took it from him, resisting the urge to rip it to shreds. Then good humor reasserted itself, and he donned the sodden headgear. Water dripped down his face. The young sailor could contain himself no longer, and his laughter pealed out. The wide brim of the hat slowly sagged over Khalkeus’ ears. “I think it is an improvement,” said Khalkeus. The boy spun and ran back to the oar deck. The heat of the morning sun was rising, and Khalkeus found himself enjoying the cool, wet straw on his head.
On the rear deck he saw Helikaon talking with three of his senior crewmen. The trio looked stern and nervous. But then, why would they not? Khalkeus thought. They were about to sail on a vessel designed and built by the Madman from Miletos.
Turning back from the deck rail, he surveyed his great ship. Several members of the crew were looking at him, their expressions mixed. The new ship had been the subject of much mockery, and Khalkeus, as the shipwright, had been treated with scorn and even anger. Now, however, they were to sail in the madman’s vessel, and they were fervently hoping that his madness was in fact genius. If it was not, they were all doomed.
The two Mykene passengers also were looking his way, but they regarded him with studied indifference. Unlike the sailors, they probably did not appreciate that their lives now depended on his skills. Khalkeus wondered suddenly if they would care even if the knowledge was imparted to them. The Mykene were a fearless race: plunderers, killers, reavers. Death held no terror for such men.
He stared back at them. Both were tall and lean, cold and distant. The elder, Argurios, had a chisel-shaped black chin beard and bleak emotionless eyes. The younger man, Glaukos, was obviously in awe of him. He rarely spoke unless to reply to a remark from Argurios. Although they traveled now among peaceful settlements and quiet islands, they were garbed as if for war, short swords and daggers belted at their sides and bronze-reinforced leather kilts about their waists. Argurios had a finely wrought leather cuirass, the shoulders and chest armored by overlapping bronze disks. The fair-haired Glaukos had a badly shaped breastplate with a crack on the left side. Khalkeus reasoned that Glaukos was from a poor Mykene family and had attached himself to Argurios in the hope of advancement. For the
Mykene advancement always came through war, plunder, and the grief and loss of gentler men. Khalkeus loathed the whole damned race.
If the ship does goes down, he thought, that armor will plunge them to their deaths with satisfying speed.
He felt a flash of irritation at such a defeatist idea. My ship will not sink, he told himself. Then he repeated it in his mind over and over. His heart began to pound, and his fingers started to tremble. Turning to the deck rail, he took hold of it and stood very still, waiting for the panic to pass.
Ten years of failure and ridicule had damaged his confidence more than he had realized. Reaching into the pouch at his side, he pulled forth a tiny piece of silver-gray metal and ran his thick workman’s fingers over its glossy surface. He sighed. Here was the source of all his misery and the seed of all his hopes. Hidden within this one shard was a secret he believed could change not only his fortunes but the destiny of nations. How galling, then, that he could not discover it.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a booming voice calling out an order to the sixty oarsmen. Zidantas, the hulking Hittite who served as the Golden One’s second in command, leaned over the rear deck rail. “By the mark of one,” he shouted, sunlight gleaming from his shaved skull. From belowdecks came a responding call from the lead oarsman.
“Ready! Lift! Brace. And pull!”
Khalkeus took a deep breath. The oar blades sliced into the blue water, and the Xanthos began to glide out over the sea.
The shipwright listened to the creaking of the wood, seeking to identify the source of every murmur, every tiny muted groan. Swiftly he calculated once more the amount of rock ballast against the weight of the ship’s timbers and decking, then leaned over the side to watch the prow cleaving the gentle waves.