Lord of the Silver Bow (3 page)

Packed in a chest.
Like his emotions, she thought. In the five years she had known him Phaedra had never come close to the man within. She wondered if anyone had.

Phaedra stepped out into the rain, lifting her face to the black sky. She shivered as her green gown became drenched, the wind seeming icy as it flowed across her wet skin. She laughed aloud and stepped back under cover. The cold stripped away her fatigue.

Lightning flashed, and she thought she saw a shadowy figure dart past the screen of bushes to her right. Spinning around, she saw nothing. Was it a trick of the light? Nervous now, she moved back into the house, pushing shut the door.

The last of Helikaon’s guests had gone, and she walked upstairs to his apartment. The room was dark, with no lamps lit. Entering silently, she walked to the bed. It was empty. Moving to the balcony, she looked down into the garden. There was no one in sight. The clouds broke briefly, and the moon was bright.

Turning back inside, she saw a muddy footprint on the floor. Fear rose, and she glanced around the room. Someone had been there. He had climbed through the window. Moving back to the balcony, she glanced down once more.

A shadow moved, and she saw a hooded, dark-garbed man run for the wall. Then Helikaon emerged from behind a statue, a dagger in his hand. The man saw him and swerved away. He ran and leapt high, hauling himself onto the high wall and rolling over to the open land beyond. The clouds closed in again, and Phaedra could see nothing.

Running out into the corridor, she descended the stairs, arriving at the entrance just as Helikaon stepped inside. Pushing shut the door, Phaedra dropped the locking bar in place. “Who was he?” she asked.

Helikaon tossed the bronze dagger onto a tabletop. “Just a thief,” he said. “He is gone now.” Moving past her, he walked to the kitchen, taking up a towel and drying his face and arms.

Phaedra followed him. “Tell me the truth,” she said.

Stripping off his tunic, he continued to dry his body. Then he walked naked across the room and filled two goblets with watered wine. Passing one to her, he sipped his own. “The man was following me when I went to the shrine. I caught glimpses of him. He is very skilled and held to the shadows. Ox and my men did not see him.”

“But you did?”

He sighed. “My father was murdered by an assassin, Phaedra. Since then I have been . . . more observant of those around me, shall we say?”

“Do you have many enemies, Helikaon?”

“All powerful men have enemies. There are merchants who owe me fortunes. Were I to die, they would be free of their debts. I have killed pirates who left behind brothers and sons who desire vengeance. But let us talk no more of it tonight. The assassin is gone, and you are looking beautiful.”

If she had been his wife, she might have told him that she no longer desired to make love. But I am not his wife, she thought. I am Aphrodite’s child, and he is my gift giver. Like the toothless hag in the upper back bedroom I am just a whore. Sadness flowed in her, but she forced a bright smile and stepped into his embrace. His kiss was warm, his breath sweet, the arms around her strong.

“Am I your friend?” she asked him later as they lay together on her broad bed, her head resting on his shoulder, her thigh across his.

“Now and always, Phaedra.”

“Even when I am old and ugly?”

He stroked her hair. “What would you have me say?”

“The truth. I want to hear the truth.”

Leaning over her, he kissed her brow. “I do not give my friendship lightly,” he said, “and it does not depend on youth and beauty. If we both live to be old and ugly, I will still be your friend.”

She sighed. “I am frightened, Helikaon. Frightened of getting old, frightened of your being killed or tiring of me, frightened of becoming like Phia’s mother. A long time ago I chose this life, and it has brought me wealth and security. Now I wonder whether I made the right choice. Do you think I could have been happy wed to a farmer or a fisherman and raising children?”

“I cannot answer that. We make choices every day, some of them good, some of them bad. And if we are strong enough, we live with the consequences. To be truthful, I am not entirely sure what people mean when they talk of happiness. There are moments of joy and laughter, the comfort of friendship, but enduring happiness? If it exists, I have not discovered it.”

“Perhaps it comes only when you are in love,” she suggested.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“No,” she lied.

“Nor I,” he replied, the simple words sliding like a dagger into her heart.

“What a sad pair we are,” she said, forcing a smile and sliding her hand down over his flat belly. “Ah!” she said with mock surprise, “there is one among us who does not seem sad. Indeed, he is beginning to feel rampantly happy.”

Helikaon laughed. “You do have that effect on him.” His hands clasped her waist, lifting her over him. Then he drew her down and kissed her deeply.

III

THE GOLDEN SHIP

I

The storms of the last two days had faded into the west, and the sky was clear and blue, the sea calm, as Spyros rowed his passenger toward the great ship. After a morning of ferrying crewmen out to the
Xanthos,
Spyros was tired. He liked to tell people that at eighty years of age he was as strong as ever, but it was not true. His arms and shoulders were aching and his heart was thumping as he leaned back into the oars.

A man was not old until he could no longer work. That simple philosophy kept Spyros active, and every morning, as he woke, he would greet the new day with a smile. He would walk out and draw water from the well, gaze at his reflection in the surface, and say “Good to see you, Spyros.”

He looked at the young man sitting quietly at the stern. His hair was long and dark, held back from his face by a strip of leather. Bare-chested, he was wearing a simple kilt and sandals. His body was lean and hard-muscled, his eyes the brilliant blue of a summer sky. Spyros had not seen the man before and guessed him to be a foreigner, probably a rogue islander or a Kretan.

“New oarsman, are you?” Spyros asked him. The passenger did not answer, but he smiled. “Been ferrying men like you in all week. Locals won’t sail on the Death Ship. That’s what we call the
Xanthos.
Only idiots and foreigners. No offense meant.”

The passenger’s voice was deep, his accent proving Spyros’ theory. “But she is beautiful,” he said amiably. “And the shipwright says she is sound.”

“Aye, I’ll grant she’s good to look upon,” said Spyros. “Mighty pleasing on the eye.” Then he chuckled. “However, I wouldn’t trust the word of the Madman from Miletos. My nephew worked on the ship, you know. He said Khalkeus wandered about talking to himself. Sometimes he’d even slap himself on the head.”

“I have seen him do that,” the man concurred.

Spyros fell silent, a feeling of mild irritation flowering. The man was young and obviously did not appreciate the fact that the gods of the sea hated large ships. Twenty years earlier he had watched just such a ship sail from the bay. It had made two voyages without incident, then had vanished in a storm. One man had survived. He had been washed ashore on the eastern mainland. His story was told by mariners for some years. The keel had snapped, the ship breaking up in a few heartbeats. Spyros considered telling this story to the young oarsman but decided against it. What would be the point? The man had to earn his twenty copper rings and was not going to turn back now.

Spyros rowed on, the burning in his lower back increasing. This was his twentieth trip out to the
Xanthos
since dawn.

There were small boats all around the galley, stacked with cargo. Men were shouting and vying for position. Boats thumped into one another, causing curses and threats to be bellowed out. Ropes were lowered, and items slowly hauled aboard. Tempers were short among both the crew on the deck and the men waiting to unload their cargo boats. It was a scene of milling chaos.

“Been like this all morning,” Spyros said, easing back on the oars. “Don’t think they’ll sail today. It’s one of the problems with a ship that size, getting cargo up on that high deck. Didn’t think of that, did he—the Madman, I mean?”

“The owner is to blame,” said the passenger. “He wanted the largest ship ever built. He concentrated on its seaworthiness and the quality of its construction. He didn’t give enough thought to loading or unloading it.”

Spyros shipped his oars. “Listen, lad, you obviously don’t know who you are sailing with. Best not say anything like that close to the Golden One. Helikaon may be young, but he is a killer, you know. He cut off Alektruon’s head and ripped out his eyes. It’s said he ate them. Not someone you want to offend if you take my meaning.”

“Ate his eyes? I have not heard
that
story.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of stories about him.” Spyros stared at the bustle around the galley. “No point trying to push my way through to the stern. We’ll need to wait awhile until some of those cargo boats have moved off.”

A huge bald man, his black beard greased and twisted into two braids, appeared on the port deck, his voice booming out, ordering some of the cargo boats to stand clear and allow those closest to load their cargo.

“The bald man there is Zidantas,” said Spyros. “They call him Ox. I had another nephew sailed with him once. Ox is a Hittite. Good man, though. My nephew broke his arm on the
Ithaka
a few years back and couldn’t work the whole voyage. Still got his twenty copper rings, though. Zidantas saw to that.” He turned his face toward the south. “Breeze is starting to shift. Going to be a southerly. Unusual for this time of year. That’ll help you make the crossing, I suppose. If it does get under way today.”

“She’ll sail,” said the man.

“You are probably right, young fellow. The Golden One is blessed by luck. Not one of his ships has sunk. Did you know that? Pirates avoid him—well, they would, wouldn’t they? You don’t cross a man who eats your eyes.” Reaching down, he lifted a water skin from below his seat. He drank deeply and then offered it to his passenger, who accepted gratefully.

A glint of bronze showed from the deck, and two warriors came into sight, both wearing breastplates and carrying helmets crested with white horsehair plumes.

“I offered to ferry them out earlier,” Spyros muttered. “They didn’t like my boat. Too small for them, I don’t doubt. Ah, well, a pox on all Mykene anyway. Heard them talking, though. They’re not friends of the Golden One, that’s for sure.”

“What did they say?”

“Well, it was more the older one. He said it turned his stomach to be sailing on the same ship as Helikaon. Can’t blame him, I suppose. That Alektruon—the one who lost his eyes—was a Mykene, too. Helikaon has killed a lot of Mykene.”

“As you say, not a man to offend.”

“I wonder why he does it.”

“What? Kill Mykene?”

“No, sail his ships all over the Great Green. They say he has a palace in Troy and land in Dardania and somewhere else way north. Don’t remember where. Anyhow, he is already rich and powerful. So why risk himself on the sea, fighting pirates and the like?”

The young man shrugged. “All is never as it seems. Who knows? Maybe he is a man with a dream. I heard that he wants to sail one day beyond the Great Green, to the distant seas.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Spyros. “The edge of the world is there, with a waterfall that goes down forever into darkness. What kind of idiot would want to sail off into the black abyss of the world?”

“That is a good question, boatman. A man who is not content, perhaps. A man looking for something he cannot find on the Great Green.”

“There you go! There’s nothing of worth that a man cannot find in his own village, let alone on the great sea. That’s the problem with these rich princes and kings. They don’t understand what real treasure is. They see it in gold and copper and tin. They see it in herds of horses and cattle. They gather treasures to themselves, building great storehouses, which they guard ferociously. Then they die. What good is it then?”

“And you know what real treasure is?” asked the young man.

“Of course. Most ordinary men do. I’ve been up in the hills these last few days. A young woman almost died. Babe breached in the womb. I got there in time, though. Poor girl. Ripped bad, she was. She’ll be fine, and the boy is healthy and strong. I watched that woman hold the babe in her arms and gaze down on it. She was so weak, she might have died at any moment. But in her eyes you could see she knew what she was holding. It was something worth more than gold. And the father was more proud and happy than any conquering king with a vault of treasure.”

“The child is lucky to have such loving parents. Not all children do.”

“And those that don’t get heart-scarred. You don’t see the wounds, but they never heal.”

“What is your name, boatman?”

“Spyros.”

“How is it you are a rower and a midwife, Spyros? It is an unusual pairing of talents.”

The old man chuckled. “Brought a few children into the world during my eighty years. Developed a knack for delivering healthy babies. It began more than fifty years ago. A young shepherd’s wife had a difficult birth, and the babe was born dead. I was there and picked up the poor little mite to carry it away. As I lifted him, he suddenly spewed blood, then started to cry. That began it, you know, the story of my skill with babies. My wife . . . sweet girl . . . had six children. So I knew more than a little about the difficulties of childbirth. Over the years I was asked to attend other births. You know how it is. Word gets around. Any girl within fifty miles gets pregnant and they send for old Spyros, come the time. It is strange, you know. The older I grow, the more pleasure I get from bringing new life into the world.”

“You are a good man,” said the passenger, “and I am gladdened to have met you. Now take up your oars and force your way through. It is time for me to board.”

The old man dipped his blades and rowed in between two longboats. Two sailors above saw the boat and lowered a rope between the bank of oars. Then the passenger stood and from a pouch at his side pulled out a thick ring and handed it to Spyros.

It glinted in his palm. “Wait!” shouted Spyros. “This ring is gold!”

“I liked your stories,” the man said with a smile, “so I will not eat your eyes.”

II

A loud crash from the deck above was followed by angry shouts. As Helikaon cleared the rail, he saw that two men had dropped an amphora, which had smashed. Thick, unwatered wine had drenched a section of planking, its heady fumes lying heavy in the air. The giant Zidantas was grappling with the men, and other sailors were standing by shouting encouragement to the fighters.

The moment they saw Helikaon, all noise ceased and the crewmen returned silently to their work.

Helikaon approached Zidantas. “We are losing time, Ox,” he said. “And there is still cargo on the beach.”

As the morning wore on, Helikaon remained on the high rear deck in full view of the toiling men. Tensions were still running high, and the crew remained fearful of sailing on the Death Ship. His presence calmed them, and they began to relax, the work flowing more smoothly. He knew what they were thinking. The Golden One, blessed by the gods, was sailing with them. No harm would befall them.

Such belief in him was vital to them. The greatest danger, he knew, would come if he ever started believing it himself. Men talked of his luck and the fact that none of his ships had been lost. Yes, there was always luck involved, but more important, at the end of every trading season those ships were checked by carpenters, drawn up on beaches, and debarnacled. Necessary repairs were undertaken. The crews were carefully chosen, and the captains were men of great experience. Not one of his fifty galleys ever sailed overladen or took unnecessary risks in the name of greater profits.

With the storm passed, the day’s crossing to the mainland coast would be a gentle test for the new ship, allowing the crew members to grow accustomed to her—and to one another. The boatman’s comment about the local sailors was correct. It had not been easy finding skilled men willing to sail on the
Xanthos,
and they were still some twenty short. Zidantas had scoured the port seeking sailors to join them. Helikaon smiled. They could have filled the quota twice over, but Zidantas was a harsh judge. “Better to be short with good men, then full with dross,” he argued. “Saw one man. A Gyppto. Already assigned to the
Mirion.
If I see him in Troy, I’ll try again.”

“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.