Lord of the Silver Bow (7 page)

“I need no praise from you,” Argurios replied, turning away and returning to his companion.

Zidantas crouched down beside Xander. “Well, lad, did you enjoy your first storm?”

“No.”

“You enjoyed surviving it, though?”

“Oh, yes.” The trembling began to pass. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You were lucky, Xander. There was only one life lost.”

“Was it Epeus?”

“No. A young Lykian called Hippolatos. Good lad.”

“I don’t understand. If Poseidon was angry with Epeus, why would he kill Hippolatos?”

“Life is full of mysteries,” Zidantas told him.

As the seas continued to calm, a ragged cheer went up from the crew. Helikaon walked among them, and they gathered around him.

“Poseidon has blessed the
Xanthos,
” he called out. “We swam with him, and he read the courage in your hearts. Every man among you will receive double payment.” The cheers rang out even louder, and a mood of exultation swept the ship.

Xander did not feel exultant.

Helikaon came to him then. He crouched down alongside the trembling boy. “The world is full of fear, Xander,” he said, “but you were a hero today.”

“I did nothing, lord.”

“I saw you. You first tied Gershom to the mast. Not yourself. You put his survival before your own. Your father would be proud of you, as I am. And you saw two other heroes. Gershom clung to you though his hands were torn and bloody. Argurios risked his life so that you would not die. There is greatness in both of these men and in you.”

II

Gershom sat in the bow of the
Xanthos,
knees drawn up, a ragged piece of cloth around his raw shoulders and sore arms. The storm had passed, and though the moon was shining in a star-filled sky, he still trembled occasionally. Sudden shivers would rack his frame. Squinting through swollen lids, his eyes were fixed on the approaching land, willing it to come close more quickly. Never had he been so eager to feel steady ground under his feet. Close by, Zidantas was leaning over the side, staring intently down at the clear dark water below the prow. Beside him a crewman garbed only in a black loincloth was plunging a long notched pole into the sea and calling out the depth. The
Xanthos
inched forward.

“How long will we be ashore?” Gershom asked, hoping Zidantas would say several days.

“Just overnight,” Zidantas replied shortly. Without looking to the rear of the ship, he signaled twice with his right arm to the helmsman, and Gershom felt the great ship adjust fractionally in her course. He had been told there were dangerous shoals in these waters, and he stayed silent, unwilling to break the concentration of the experienced seamen. He could see that most of the oars were held high; only six dipped regularly in and out of the water as the
Xanthos
crept toward the safety of the shore.

To starboard was a tall island, its top shrouded in lush vegetation, its cliffs white with seabirds and their droppings. As the ship drew abreast of the isle, Gershom could see that it screened the entrance to a great bay. The sight of it made him catch his breath, and next to him he heard the boy Xander gasp.

The bay was large and almost circular. Around it gray and white cliffs towered high and jagged. At the center of the cliffs, directly ahead of them, two tall peaks of bluish rock stood sentinel, shining in the moonlight. At their base a glittering silver waterfall ran down through a riot of greenery and then appeared as a small river. Gershom could make out a cluster of buildings rising steeply in a jumble of white walls and red roofs, and at the top a fortress looked out over the sea. The river estuary divided the wide strip of white beach neatly in half. Other ships were drawn up on the strand, and campfires were burning on the beach.

The boy glanced at him, mouth open. “It’s beautiful!” he said, his eyes alight with wonder.

Gershom smiled at him and felt his spirits lift. This child had traveled on the Great Green for only one day, had survived a violent storm, had looked certain death in the eye—yet here he was, undeterred, looking forward to his next adventure, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Where are we? What is this place called?” Xander asked.

Zidantas took his eyes off the water at last and stood up straight, his hands easing the small of his back. “We’re clear now,” he said to the crewman, who nodded and then returned back down the ship, pole in hand. Zidantas swung to the boy. “The locals call it the Bay of Blue Owls,” he said. “Others call it Bad Luck Bay.”

“Why do you come here if it’s bad luck?” Gershom asked, thinking, I’ve seen enough bad luck without seeking it out.

Zidantas smiled without humor. “It’s never been bad luck for us, Gyppto. Just for other ships.”

Gershom could see the shore quite clearly now. Most of the ships were beached together to the right side of the river, but three black ships lay to the left, far from the others. He saw Zidantas’ expression grow darker as he gazed at the black galleys. “You know them?” he asked.

“Yes, I know them.”

“Rival traders?”

Leaning in close so that the boy could not hear, Zidantas whispered, “They trade in blood, Gyppto. They are pirates.”

Xander had climbed to the topmost point of the high, curved prow. “Look at all those people,” he shouted, pointing to the beach.

There was a crowd around a score of stalls set up on the sand; small fires had been lit, and more were sparking to life as he watched. Gershom almost believed he could smell roasting meat. His shrunken stomach gripped him painfully for a moment.

“Yes,” said Zidantas, “it’s a busy little place. This kingdom grows rich on the tolls the Fat King levies. But he keeps the bay safe for all ships and—mostly—for sailors from every land. Good and bad. You’ll meet all sorts here. They come to do a little trading, a little whoring.” He dropped a wink at Xander, who blushed. “But mostly they come for safe anchorage for the night. The storm will have washed all sorts of flotsam into Bad Luck Bay tonight.”

At a call from Helikaon the bald-headed giant hurried back along the deck to the helm. Seconds later the ship started to turn sharply until her nose was pointed once more toward the open sea.

“What’s happening? Why aren’t we beaching?” Xander asked anxiously, returning to stand beside Gershom.

Gershom could not answer him.

“Reverse oars,” came the booming command from Zidantas.

The
Xanthos,
uncertainly at first, began to back toward the beach. Zidantas and two crewmen lifted the steering oar clear of the water, sliding it back along a groove fashioned in the rear deck rail.

Thirty oars dipped into the wine-dark water, the men began to chant lustily, and the stern of the
Xanthos
surged toward a wide stretch of sand. Close by was a single galley with huge crimson eyes painted on the bow. Men were stretched out on the sand around it, but many of them stood as the
Xanthos
approached.

The water was almost still near the shore, and the pointed stern of the ship cleaved the gentle swell like an ax. Gershom grabbed on to the side. The thirty oars dipped in and out of the water relentlessly, the pace and volume of the men’s chanting increasing, the white line of beach hurtling toward them. . . .

Gershom held on tight and closed his eyes.

“Hold!”

There was a moment of silence as the chanting stopped. The oars poised in the air, and then the stern of the
Xanthos
slid onto the beach, hurling sand and pebbles up on either side with a gritty roar as its timbers scraped over the stony waterline. It ground to a halt. There was a moment’s pause; the ship shifted a little to one side, then settled.

A great cheer arose both from the crew and from the men on the beach. Xander and Gershom had been thrown to the deck, but Xander jumped straight up and joined in the cheering.

He turned to Gershom, eyes alight. “Wasn’t that exciting?”

Gershom decided to stay where he was for a bit. Much as he wanted firm ground under his feet, he feared his legs would not carry him there just yet.

“Yes,” he said breathlessly. “ ‘Exciting’ is the very word.”

There was a bustle of movement on board as men hurried to disembark, laughing and joking with one another as the fears of the day drifted away like ocean spray. The oarsmen were shipping their blades, quickly drying them and stowing them before snatching up their belongings from under the rowers’ benches. Helikaon was the first over the side, and Gershom could see him inspecting the planking on the hull. The hold doors were raised in the center of the deck, and Zidantas and the grumpy shipwright Khalkeus both quickly disappeared into the bowels of the ship, no doubt checking for damage.

The crewman were streaming off the
Xanthos,
shinnying down ropes onto dry land.

“Come on, Gershom!” Xander had collected his small leather bag. The boy was dancing impatiently from foot to foot. “We’ve got to go ashore!”

Gershom knew he was in agony lest he miss something. “You go. I’ll be a moment.”

Xander stood in line behind several sailors waiting to disembark. When his turn came, he climbed over the deck rail, took hold of the rope, and hand over hand lowered himself to the beach. He ran off without a backward glance to where the men of the
Xanthos
were building a fire. The great ship was quiet, and Gershom was alone on the deck. He closed his eyes and relished the moment of peace.

A shout disturbed him, and he opened his eyes with a jolt.

“Ho, Helikaon! You can always tell a man of Troy because he presents his ass to you first! Never seen it done with a ship, though.”

A ruddy-faced man in a saffron-colored tunic was striding down the beach to the
Xanthos.
He was not tall but wide and muscular, and his curly beard and long hair were tawny and unkempt. His tunic was dirty and his leather sandals old and worn, yet he wore an elaborately crafted belt decorated with gold and gems from which hung a curved dagger. Gershom saw Helikaon’s face light up at the sight of him.

“You ugly old pirate,” he called out in greeting, and, patting the hull of the
Xanthos
with evident satisfaction, waded to the shore and threw his arms around the newcomer.

“You’re lucky I’m here,” said the man. “You’ll need all my crew as well as your own to get this fat cow off the beach come daybreak.”

Helikaon laughed, then turned to gaze with pride at the great ship. “She rode the storm, my friend. Fearless and defiant. She is everything I dreamed of.”

“I remember. To sail beyond Skylla and Charybdis, across uncharted oceans all the way to the end of the world. I’m proud of you.”

Helikaon fell silent for a moment. “None of it would have come to pass without you, Odysseus.”

VII

THE LOST HERO

Odysseus looked at the young man and was amazed to find he was at a loss for words. His sudden embarrassment was covered by the arrival of several members of his crew, who rushed forward and gathered around Helikaon. They clapped him on the back or embraced him, then drew him back to where other men waited to greet him.

Odysseus gazed back at the great ship and remembered the little raven-haired child who had once told him, “I will build the biggest ship. And I will kill sea monsters and sail to the end of the world, where all the gods live.”

“They are said to live on Mount Olympos.”

“Do any of them live at the end of the world?”

“A terrible woman with eyes of fire. One glance at her face and men burn like candles.”

The child had looked concerned. Then his expression hardened.

“I won’t look at her face,” he said.

Time flew faster than the wings of Pegasus, thought Odysseus. He suddenly felt old. At year’s end he would be forty-five. He drew in a deep breath, his mood becoming melancholy. Then he saw a young lad running from the
Xanthos.
He was looking around, awestruck, at the fires and the stalls and the throngs of people.

“Where do you think are you going, little man?” Odysseus asked sternly.

The tawny-haired youngster looked at him. “Is this your beach, sir?” he asked.

“It might be. Do you not know who I am?”

“I do not, sir. I have never sailed before.”

Odysseus kept his expression fierce. “That is no excuse, boy. Was I not described to you in tales of wonder? Were the legends of my life not told around your cookfires?”

“I don’t know,” the boy answered honestly. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“I am the king of Ithaka—the
warrior
king of Ithaka. The greatest sailor in all the world. Does that offer a clue?”

“Is this Ithaka?” asked the lad.

Odysseus shook his head. “No, this is not Ithaka. I can see your edu-cation has been sadly lacking. Go on, now. Enjoy the delights of Blue Owl Bay.”

The boy swung away but then turned back. “I am Xander,” he said. “I am a sailor, too.”

“And a good one. I can tell. I am Odysseus.”

Xander stood very still, staring at him. “Truly?”

“Indeed.”

“I
have
heard of you. Grandfather says you are the greatest liar in all the world and tell the best stories. He told me the one about how your ship was lifted by a great storm and left on a mountainside and how you cut the sail in half and tied it to the oars and flapped them like wings so that the ship flew back to the sea.”

“For a while, though, we were lost in the clouds,” said Odysseus, “and I had to be lowered on a rope to guide us back to the water.”

The boy laughed. “I am sailing with the lord Helikaon,” he said. “We went through a great storm, and I nearly fell over the side.”

“I sailed with Helikaon once,” Odysseus told him. “He was about your age. I used my magic to teach him how to fly.”

“He can fly?”

“Like an eagle. Perhaps I’ll tell you about it later. But for now I need to piss, and I hate to be watched, so be away with you.”

The boy ran off. Odysseus, his good humor returned, strolled along the beach. He sat down on a jutting rock and looked back to where Helikaon was surrounded by crewmen from the
Penelope.
They were, he guessed, talking about old times.

Old times.

It was twenty years since Odysseus had first laid eyes on Helikaon.
Twenty years!
Sometimes it seemed merely a few trading seasons had passed. Odysseus had been young and at the height of his strength, and he remembered vividly the first time he had trodden the steep path to the hilltop fortress of Dardanos. The rocky fastness had become the capital of Dardania under Anchises the king, Helikaon’s father. He was said to be wealthy with ill-gotten gains and, more important to Odysseus the trader, had a beautiful young wife. Thus he climbed the steep rock-strewn hill accompanied by three crewmen and two donkeys laden with rare perfumes, jewels and gold, rich textiles, and trinkets that might appeal to a woman of taste.

At the fortress gates he had joked with the royal guard while weighing the defenses. The gates were thick but far too broad, a foolish vanity on the part of the king, no doubt. But the walls were high and well made, blocks of limestone fitted cunningly together without mortar. The guards at the gate looked well fed and alert. They eyed him curiously, which was only to be expected. He had already made a name for himself even in this distant northern domain.

Suddenly an excited young voice behind him cried, “Sir, sir, is that your ship?”

He swung around and saw a boy of seven or eight with night-dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The boy was pointing down to the beach where the
Penelope
had been drawn up, looming large over the fishing boats around her.

“What if it is, you ugly little dwarf?” he growled.

The boy was taken aback but stood his ground. “I’m not a dwarf, sir. I’m a boy. I am Aeneas, the son of Anchises, the king.”

Odysseus glared at him. “Expect me to believe that? You don’t look like any boy I’ve ever seen. All the boys I’ve met have had four arms. Don’t try to fool me, lad. You’ll regret it.” He placed his hand on his dagger and stepped forward menacingly.

The boy was uncertain still—until he saw the wide grins on the faces of the palace guards and laughed.

“My father told me that Odysseus of Ithaka would be our honored guest and that he is a fine teller of tall stories. Will you tell me about the boys with four arms, sir? How many heads did they have?”

Odysseus gave him a grudging smile. “We’ll see, lad,” he said. “We’ll see.”

At that moment a harassed-looking middle-aged woman appeared behind the lad.

“Aeneas, where have you been? I thought I’d never find you. I’ve been all the way down to the beach looking for you. Come. Come here. Your mother wants you. You’re a bad boy,” she added as an afterthought.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him up the path toward the royal apartments. Aeneas grinned over his shoulder at Odysseus and then suffered himself to be dragged up the stone steps to a side balcony where a slender, beautiful dark-haired woman in blue robes waited. She knelt down to embrace the boy, who, glancing at Odysseus again, rolled his eyes.

Odysseus met the king in Anchises’
megaron,
the great stone hall where he received guests and ordered his daily business. The man was pale-skinned and gray-haired, his ice-blue eyes resting coolly on the trader as if he were no more than a palace servant.

Odysseus was well used to jumped-up brigands like this. He liked to think he was flexible in his dealings, and he had an arsenal of weapons to call on, ranging from outrageous flattery through charm to scarcely concealed threats. This king, though, was cool and remote, and the trader found him hard to read. They discussed the state of trade on the local coasts, sipping well-watered wine, and Odysseus told a couple of stories to make Anchises laugh. But his best stories—even the one about the virgin and the scorpion—scarcely creased the king’s stern features, and his eyes remained cold.

Odysseus was almost relieved when Aeneas, barefoot and dressed in a linen tunic, came running into the
megaron
and skidded to a halt in front of the king.

“Have I missed everything, Father? Am I too late?”

“Missed what? What are you talking about, Aeneas?” Anchises asked impatiently, his icy eyes turning to the dark-haired woman who followed the boy into the chamber.

“The stories, Father—of wild beasts and two-headed boys and adventures on the high sea,” he said, his face creased into a frown of anxiety. “I had to do my lessons,” he explained to Odysseus, who watched him with amusement.

“I’m tired, lad, and I’ve run out of stories for the day.”

“Come, Helikaon, don’t trouble your father and his guest,” said his mother, and took him gently by the arm. She was a woman of fragile beauty with delicate pale skin and, Odysseus thought, eyes that seemed to gaze on a different horizon. It was a look he had seen before, and he regarded the young queen with renewed interest.

“I have told you before,” the king said harshly, “to call him by the name I gave him: Aeneas. It is a proud name.”

The queen looked frightened and began to stammer an apology. Odysseus saw the boy’s expression change. Then he pulled away from his mother and said: “I’m going to build the biggest ship in the world when I’m older. I am to be a great hero. The gods told Mother.”

A pretty frown creased the woman’s brow. She knelt before her son and embraced him again as Odysseus had seen her do on the balcony. She looked into the boy’s eyes as if searching for something there. Odysseus was impressed with the lad. He was very young, yet he had sensed his mother’s distress and had spoken to distract his father’s anger.

“I know the hearts of men and heroes, boy,” he said, “and I think your mother is right.”

“Go now,” said the king, and flicked his fingers at mother and child as if dismissing servants.

In the three days the
Penelope
spent in Dardania the child had followed Odysseus around like an exuberant shadow. Odysseus had tolerated his company. The boy was sharp, intelligent, curious about the world around him, friendly to all comers, yet reserving an independence of thought the trader found unusual. He was fascinated by ships and extracted a promise from Odysseus to return to Dardania one day and take him on a voyage on the
Penelope.
The trader had no intention of keeping his word, but it satisfied the boy, who stood on the beach on the last day waving the trading ship goodbye until it disappeared over the horizon.

That same summer Anchises’ wife died in a mysterious fall from a cliff. Sailors gossiped about the tragedy. One story had Anchises, known to be a coldhearted king, hurling his wife to her death. Others said she killed herself after years of suffering at Anchises’ hands. A few told more elaborate tales, saying that the queen had been possessed by Aphrodite. Odysseus dismissed that one out of hand. The idea of the goddess of love falling for a dry, dull brigand like Anchises was laughable. No, he had seen the queen’s eyes. She had been swallowing opiates. Many highborn women belonged to mysterious sects, taking part in secret revels. When young—around twelve—Odysseus had risked execution to spy on one such gathering in Ithaka. The women there had behaved with glorious abandon, dancing and singing and flinging their clothes to the ground. At one point a small goat had been brought into the clearing. The women had fallen upon it with knives, hacking it to pieces and then smearing themselves with its blood. Twelve-year-old Odysseus had been shocked and terrified and had crept away.

Anchises’ wife was said to be a priestess of Dionysus and in that role would have experienced no difficulty acquiring narcotics. They undoubtedly had unhinged her.

Odysseus stopped in Dardania several times over the following seven years, but they were overnight rests only. He saw nothing of the king or the boy and had no interest in them until one day on the isle of Lesbos he got into a conversation with a Kretan trader who had recently sailed to the Dardanian coast.

He told Odysseus the king had married again.

“A dull and unpleasant man,” Odysseus said musingly, “yet I suppose even a cold fish like him must have a wife.”

“Yes,” said the Kretan, “and the new queen has given birth to a son and heir.”

“A son?” Odysseus remembered the small black-haired boy on the beach waving as if his arm would fall off. “He has a son: Aeneas. I had not heard he was dead.”

“As good as,” replied the Kretan. “Almost a man and yet frightened of everything, they say. He stays in his room all day. The king has no time for him. As I wouldn’t,” he concluded.

Odysseus had no reason to return to Dardania, but questions about the boy had lodged in his mind from that moment. He could not shake them free and found himself, a month later, walking the steep path again to seek an audience with Anchises. This time his reception at the gates was hostile, and he was left cooling his heels for several hours outside the king’s
megaron.
He was fighting mad by the time Anchises deigned to receive him. Quelling his anger with difficulty, he accepted the wine cup the king offered and inquired after Aeneas.

The king’s stern face darkened. His eyes turned away. “You are here to sell me something, no doubt, and I am in need of a supply of tin.”

After lengthy dickering they reached an agreement. Odysseus returned to the
Penelope
with the intention of leaving at dawn but was surprised to get a late-night request from the king to see him again.

The
megaron
was icy, almost in darkness, illuminated by the light of a single fire, and Anchises was virtually invisible in the shadows of his great carved chair. He gestured Odysseus to a seat and offered him a wine cup. The wine was warmed, but the trader shivered and pulled his woolen robe closer around him.

“His mother killed herself,” Anchises said suddenly. “The boy has not been the same since. The stupid woman told him that she was the goddess Aphrodite and that she was going to fly back to Olympos. Then she leapt from the cliff. He saw her and tried to follow, but I grabbed him. He refused to believe she was insane. So I took him to the body, and he saw the ruins of her beauty, broken bones jutting from her flesh. He has been . . . useless to me since. He is frightened of everything. He speaks to nobody and goes nowhere. He will not ride a horse or dive or swim in the bay. So I have a proposition for you.”

Odysseus raised his eyebrows in question.

“He is fifteen now. Take him with you,” said the king.

“I am in no need of crew. Especially cowards.”

Anchises’ eyes narrowed, but he swallowed his anger. “I will see you are well recompensed.”

“You will pay for his keep and for the extreme inconvenience of having such a milksop aboard my ship?”

“Yes, yes,” Anchises said impatiently. “I will make it worth your while.”

“The Great Green is a dangerous place, King. Your son might not survive the experience.”