Lord of the Silver Bow

i

The Gods walk in times of storms. Little Phia knew this, for her mother had often told her stories of the immortals: how the spears of Ares, God of War, could be seen in the lightning, and how the hammer of Hephaistos caused the thunder. When the seas grew angry it meant Poseidon was swimming below the waves, or being drawn in his dolphin chariot across the Great Green. So the eight-year-old tried to quell her fears as she struggled up the muddy slope towards the shrine, her faded, threadbare tunic offering no protection from the shrieking winds and the driving rain lashing the coast of Kypros. Even her head was cold, for ten days earlier mother had cut away her golden hair in a bid to free her of the lice and fleas on her scalp. Even so Phia’s thin body was still covered in sores and bites. Most of them were just itchy, but the rat bite on her ankle remained swollen and sore, the scab constantly breaking and fresh blood flowing.

But these were small matters, and did not concern the child as she pushed on towards the high shrine. When mother had taken sick yesterday Phia had run to the healer in the centre of town. Angrily he had told her to stand back from him. He did not visit those the gods had cursed with poverty, and had barely listened as she explained that mother would not rise from her bed, and that her body was hot, and she was in pain. ‘Go to a priest,’ he said.

So Phia had run through the port to the Temple of Asklepios, and queued there with others seeking guidance and help. The waiting people all carried some kind of offering. Many had snakes in wicker pots, some had small dogs, others gifts of food or wine. When at last she was allowed through the high doors she was met by a young man who asked her what offering she brought. She tried to tell him about mother’s sickness, but he too ordered her away, and called out for the person next in line, an old man carrying a wooden cage in which two white doves were cooing. Phia didn’t know what to do, and had returned home. Mother was awake, and she was talking to someone Phia couldn’t see. Then she started crying. Phia began to cry too.

The storm came at dusk, and Phia remembered that the gods walked in harsh weather. She decided to speak to them herself.

The Shrine of Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow, was close to the angry sky, and Phia thought the gods might hear her better if she climbed to it.

She was shivering now as the night grew colder, and worried in case the wild dogs roaming the hills caught the scent of the blood on her ankle. She stumbled in the darkness. Her knee struck a rock and she cried out. When she was small, and hurt herself, she would run to mother, who would hug her and stroke away the pain. But that was when they lived in a bigger house, with a flower garden, and all the uncles had been rich and young. Now they were old and grubby, and they did not bring fine presents, but only a few copper rings. They no longer sat and laughed with mother. Mostly they did not talk at all. They would come in the night. Phia would be sent outside, and they would leave after a short time.

Lately no uncles had come at all. There were no gifts, no rings, and little food.

Phia climbed higher. On top of the cliff she saw the jagged stand of rocks that surrounded the shrine. Apollo’s Leap, it was called, because, as mother had said, the golden-haired God of the Sun had once rested there, before flying back into the sky to his chariot of fire.

The child was almost at the end of her strength as she forced her way up the steep slope. Dizzy with fatigue, she stumbled into the rocks. Lightning lit the sky. Phia cried out, for the brilliant light suddenly illuminated a figure standing on the very edge of the high cliff, arms raised. Phia’s legs gave way, and she slumped to the ground. The clouds broke then, the moon shining through.

The god lowered his arms and turned slowly, rain glistening on his naked upper body.

Phia stared at him, eyes wide and frightened. Was it the Lord of the Silver Bow?

Surely not, for this god’s hair was long and dark, and Apollo was said to have locks fashioned from golden sunlight. The face was striking and stern, the eyes pale and hard. Phia gazed at his ankles, hoping to see wings there, which would mean he was Hermes, messenger of the gods. Hermes was known to be friendly to mortals.

But there were no wings.

The god approached her and she saw that his eyes were a bright, startling blue.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Are you the God of War?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

He smiled. ‘No, I am not the god of war.’

A wave of relief swept over her. The mighty Ares would not have healed mother.

He hated humans.

‘My mother is ill, and I have no offerings,’ she said. ‘But if you heal her, I will work and work and I will bring you many gifts. All my life.’

The god turned away then, and walked back through the rocks.

‘Please don’t leave!’ she cried. ‘Mother is sick!’

He knelt down and lifted a heavy cloak from behind a rock, then, sitting beside her, he wrapped the garment round her shoulders. It was of the softest wool.

‘You came to the shrine seeking help for your mother?’ he said. ‘Has a healer visited her?’

‘He would not come,’ she told the god. ‘So I went to the temple, but I had no offerings. They sent me away.’

‘Come,’ he said, ‘take me to your mother.’

‘Thank you.’ She tried to rise. Her legs gave way and she fell awkwardly, mud splattering the expensive cloak. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘It matters not,’ he told her, then lifted her into his arms, and began the long walk back into the town.

Somewhere during that walk Phia fell asleep, her head resting on the god’s shoulder. She only woke when she heard voices. The god was speaking to someone.

Opening her eyes she saw a huge figure walking alongside the god. He was bald, but had a forked beard. As she opened her eyes the bearded one smiled at her.

They were approaching the houses now, and the god asked her where she lived.

Phia felt embarrassed, because these were nice houses, white-walled and red-roofed. She and mother lived in a shack on the wasteland beyond. The roof leaked, and there were holes in the thin wooden walls, through which rats found their way in. The floor was of dirt, and there were no windows.

‘I am feeling stronger now,’ she said, and the god put her down. Then she led the way home.

As they went inside several rats scurried away from mother. The god knelt on the floor alongside her, and reached out to touch her brow. ‘She is alive,’ he said.

‘Carry her back to the house, Ox,’ he told his friend. ‘We’ll be there presently.’

The god took Phia by the hand, and together they walked through the town and stopped at the house of the healer. ‘He is a very angry man,’ Phia warned, as the god hammered his fist on the wooden door.

It was wrenched open and the healer loomed in the doorway. ‘What in Hades…?’

he began. Then he saw the dark-haired god, and Phia saw his attitude change. He seemed to shrink. ‘I apologize, Lord,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘I did not know…’

‘Gather your herbs and medicines and come immediately to the house of Phaedra,’ said the god.

‘Of course. Immediately.’

Then they began to walk again, this time up the long winding hill towards the homes of the rich. Phia’s strength began to fail again. The god lifted her. ‘We will get you some food,’ he said.

When at last they reached their destination Phia gazed in wonder. It was a palace, a high wall surrounding a beautiful garden, and there were red pillars on either side of a great entrance. Inside they walked upon floors decorated with coloured stones, and there were wall paintings in vivid colours. ‘Is this your house?’ she asked.

‘No. I stay here when I am in Kypros,’ he answered.

He carried Phia to a white-walled room at the rear of the house. There was a woman there, golden-haired and young, dressed in a robe of green, edged with gold thread. She was very beautiful. The god spoke to her, then introduced her as Phaedra. ‘Give the child something to eat,’ said the god. ‘I shall wait for the healer and see how the mother is faring.’

Phaedra smiled at Phia and brought out some fresh bread and honey. After she had eaten Phia thanked the woman, and they sat in silence for a while. Phia did not know what to say. The woman poured herself a goblet of wine, to which she added water. ‘Are you a goddess?’ asked Phia.

‘Some men have told me that I am,’ replied Phaedra, with a wide smile.

‘Is this your house?’

‘Yes. Do you like it?’

‘It is very big.’

‘Indeed it is.’

Phia leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘I do not know which god he is. I went to the shrine and saw him. Is he the Lord of the Silver Bow?’

‘He is a lord of many things,’ said Phaedra. ‘Would you like some more bread?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Phaedra told her to help herself, then fetched a pitcher of cool milk, and filled a cup. Phia drank it. The taste was sublime. ‘So,’ said Phaedra, ‘your mother was ill and you went to the shrine for help. It is very high up there, and treacherous. And there are packs of wild dogs.’

Phia did not know how to respond, so she sat silently.

‘That was very brave of you,’ said Phaedra. ‘Your mother is lucky to have you.

What happened to your hair?’

‘Mother cut it. I have fleas.’ Again, she felt shame.

‘Tonight I will have a bath prepared for you. And we will find some ointments for those bites and scratches on your arms.’

The god returned then. He had changed his clothes and was wearing a white, knee-length tunic edged with silver thread, his long black hair pulled back from his face and tied in a ponytail. ‘Your mother is very weak,’ he said, ‘but she is sleeping now. The healer will come every day until she is well. You may both stay here for as long as you wish. Phaedra will find work for your mother. Does that answer your prayers, Phia?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the girl. ‘Thank you.’

‘She was wondering if you are Apollo,’ said Phaedra, with a smile.

He knelt alongside Phia and she looked into his brilliant blue eyes. ‘My name is Helikaon,’ he said, ‘and I am not a god. Are you disappointed?’

‘No,’ replied Phia, though she was.

Helikaon rose then, and spoke to Phaedra. ‘There are merchants coming. I will be with them for a while.’

‘You still intend to sail for Troy tomorrow?’

‘I must. I promised Hektor I would be at the wedding.’

‘It is the storm season, Helikaon, and almost a month at sea. That could prove a costly promise.’

He leaned in and kissed her, then walked from the room.

Phaedra sat down with Phia. ‘Do not be too disappointed, little one,’ said Phaedra. ‘He is a god, really. He just doesn’t know it.’

ii

Later, with the child bathed and in bed, Phaedra stood under the portico roof, watching the lightning. The wind was fresh and cool, gusting over the garden, filling the air with the scent of jasmine from the trees against the western wall. She was tired now and strangely melancholy. This was Helikaon’s last night in Kypros. The season was almost over and he would be sailing his new ship hundreds of miles to Troy, and then north to Dardania for the winter. Phaedra had been anticipating a night of passion and warmth, the hardness of his body, the taste of his lips upon hers. Instead he had returned to the house with the half-starved, flea-bitten child of the toothless whore Ox had carried in earlier.

At first Phaedra had been angry, but now she was merely unsettled.

Sheltered from the rain Phaedra closed her eyes and pictured the child, her shaven head covered by bites, her face thin and pinched, her eyes huge and frightened. The little girl was asleep now, in the room next to her mother’s.

Phaedra had felt the urge to hug her, to draw her close and kiss her cheek. She had wanted to take away the pain and the fear from those large, blue eyes. Yet she had not. She had merely drawn back the coverlet to allow the skinny girl to clamber into the wide bed, and lay her head back on the soft bolster. ‘Sleep well, Phia. You will be safe here.’

‘Are you his wife?’

‘No. He is one of my Gift-givers. I am like your mother – one of Aphrodite’s Maidens.’

‘There are no Gift-givers now,’ said Phia, sleepily.

‘Go to sleep.’

Of course there were no Gift-givers, thought Phaedra. The mother was ugly and thin, and old before her time.

As you are getting old, she thought. Though blessed with a youthful appearance Phaedra was approaching thirty-five. Soon her Gift-givers too would fall away.

Anger touched her. Who cares if they do? I have wealth now.

And yet the sense of melancholy remained.

In the eighteen years since she had become a Follower of Aphrodite Phaedra had been pregnant nine times. On each occasion she had visited the Temple of Asklepios and swallowed bitter herbs to end the pregnancies. The last time had been five years ago. She had delayed for a month, torn between the desire to increase her wealth and the growing need to be a mother. ‘Next time,’ she had told herself. ‘Next time I will bear the child.’

Only there had been no next time, and now she found herself dreaming of children crying in the dark, calling out to her. She would run around blindly trying to find them, and wake in a cold sweat. The tears would come then, and her sobs would echo the emptiness of her life.

‘My life is not empty,’ she told herself. ‘I have a palace and servants, and wealth enough to live out my life without the need of men.’

Yet was it true, she wondered?

Her mood had been fragile all day, and she had felt close to tears when Helikaon said he was going up to the Shrine of Apollo. She had walked there with him once, a year ago now, and had watched as he stood on the very edge of the cliff, arms raised, eyes closed.

‘Why did you do that?’ she had asked him. ‘The cliff could give way. You could fall and be dashed on the rocks.’

‘Perhaps that is why,’ he had answered.

Phaedra had been mystified by the answer. It made no sense. But then so much of Helikaon defied logic. She always struggled to understand the mysteries of the man. When he was with her there was never a hint of the violence men whispered of. No harshness, no cruelty, no anger. In fact he rarely carried a weapon when in Kypros, although she had seen the three bronze swords, the white-crested helm, the breastplate and the greaves he wore in battle. They were packed in a chest in the upper bedroom he used when on the island.

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 did.

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 now 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 round 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, 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 shone bright.

Turning back inside she saw a muddy footprint on the floor. Fear rose and she glanced around the room. Someone had been here. 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 to a table top.

‘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.’

Had she 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 own.

‘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 then. ‘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 only comes 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.

i

The storms of the past two days had faded into the west, and the sky was clear and blue, the sea calm, as Spyros rowed his passenger towards 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 wasn’t 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. This 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 up 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,”1 he added. ‘Only idiots and foreigners.

No offence 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,’ agreed the man.

Spyros fell silent, a feeling of mild irritation flowering. The man was young, and obviously did not appreciate that the gods of the sea hated large ships.

Twenty years ago 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 matter of a few heartbeats. Spyros considered telling this story to the young oarsman. He decided against it. What would be the point? The man had to earn his twenty copper rings, and he wasn’t 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 i 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,’ said Spyros, 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 offload their cargo.

‘The bald man there is Zidantas,’ said Spyros. ‘They call him Ox. I had another nephew sail 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 towards 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, 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,’ muttered Spyros. ‘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 for ever 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 breeched 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 round. Any girl within fifty miles gets pregnant and they’ll 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 long boats. 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,’ said the man, 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 crew 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 de-barnacled. Necessary repairs were undertaken. The crews were carefully chosen, and the captains men of great experience. Not one of his fifty galleys ever sailed over-laden, or took unnecessary risks in the name of greater profits.

With the storm past the sixty-mile crossing to the mainland coast would be a gentle test for the new ship, allowing the crew to grow accustomed to her – and to each other. The boatman’s comment about local sailors was correct. It had not been easy finding skilled men willing to sail on the Xanthos and they were still some twenty crew 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, than 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,’ replied Zidantas. ‘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 now. 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 had 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 round. ‘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 armour and had swords scabbarded at their hips. The elder 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 criss-crossed 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 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 of 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’d 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 crew 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 now, 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 dishes 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 towards 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 honour, for Helikaon was the son of a king. He was also a demi-god.

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 round 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 honour 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 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 here below decks 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 own 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 armour. The eldest 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 bark. There were weapons, too, axes and swords, shields and helms. 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 round. 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 these 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 is 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 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 fish-ing 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 then, 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 a 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, and yet his presence quietened the crew, and they 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,’ said Helikaon.

‘He was right. Remember that when your belly trembles, and your legs grow weak.’

i

It always iritated Khalkeus when he heard himself described as the Madman from Miletos. He hated the simple inaccuracy of the statement. He wasn’t from Miletos. To be called 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 grey. There was also 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 below decks, 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 humour 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? thought Khalkeus.

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.

For if not they were all doomed.

The two Mykene passengers were also 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 travelled now among peaceful settlements and quiet islands they were garbed as if for war, short swords and daggers belted at their sides, bronze-reinforced leather kilts about their waists. Argurios had a finely wrought leather cuirass, the shoulders and chest armoured by overlapping bronze discs. 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 go down, he thought, that armour 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 again. 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-grey 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 below deck 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 through the gentle waves.

The oarsmen below the top deck began to sing, creating a rhythmic harmony between the smooth actions of their bodies and the chant of the song. There should have been eighty oarsmen, but not even the wealth and reputation of Helikaon, the Golden One, could attract a full crew to the Death Ship. He had heard the Kypriot carpenters whispering as they shaped the hull timbers. ‘She’ll sink when Poseidon swims.’

When Poseidon swims!

Why did men always have to hang a god’s deeds on the simple forces of nature?

Khalkeus knew why longer ships sank in storms, and it had nothing whatever to do with angry deities. The rise and fall of a ship in heavy water would cause extra and uneven pressure at the centre of the keel. Khalkeus had demonstrated this to Helikaon a year ago, as the two men sat on a jetty in the sunshine, overlooking the small Kypriot shipyard. Khalkeus held a long stick with both hands, then slowly bent it up and down, then side to side. Eventually the stick snapped. The longer the stick, the sooner it broke. When this happened to the hull of a ship in angry seas, he had explained, the results would be swift and terrifying. It would tear itself apart in a matter of moments.

The problem was further exacerbated, Khalkeus continued, by the manner of shipbuilding. Under normal circumstances the hull was pieced together first with planking and dowels. Only then would an inner frame be inserted to strengthen the structure. This was, in Khalkeus’ view, idiotic. Instead, the frame needed to be established at the outset, then the timbers fastened to it. This would give added strength amidships. There were other innovations Khalkeus spoke of on that first meeting. A separate deck, on which the oarsmen could sit, leaving the top deck open, either for cargo or passengers; staggered oar stations, running in a zigzag pattern up and down along the hull; support fins bolted to the hull at the front and rear, so that when the ship was drawn up on beaches at night it would not tilt too violently. These, and more, Khalkeus had described.

Helikaon had listened intently and then asked, ‘How big a ship could you build?’

‘Twice the length of any galley now sailing the Great Green.’

‘How many oars?’

‘Between eighty and a hundred.’

After that the Golden One had sat silently, his blue eyes staring off into the distance. Khalkeus had thought him bored, and waited to be dismissed. Instead Helikaon had begun a series of more specific questions. What timber would be used? How tall and how thick would the mast need to be? How would Khalkeus ensure that such a large ship would sit well in the water, and retain manoeuvrability and speed? Khalkeus had been surprised. The Golden One was young, in his twenties, and the shipwright had not expected such a depth of knowledge. They talked for several hours, then shared a meal together, and the conversation continued long into the night. Khalkeus etched diagrams into wet clay, rubbed them away, and refined them, showing panels and support frames.

‘How could such a huge ship be beached at night?’ Helikaon had asked finally.

‘And if beached how could it be refloated again come daybreak?’

‘It could not easily be fully beached,’ Khalkeus admitted. ‘But that would not be necessary. Under most conditions it would be adequate to merely ground the prow, or the stern, on the beach, and then use stone anchors and lines to hold her in place for the night. That would allow the crew to land and prepare their cookfires.’

‘Most conditions?’ queried Helikaon.

And here was the crux of the problem. Sudden storms could arrive with great speed, and most ships would flee for the shore. Being small and light, galleys could be hauled up onto the safety of the sand. A ship the size and weight of that planned by Khalkeus could not be pulled completely from the water when loaded with cargo.

Khalkeus explained the problem. ‘You would not want to half-beach a ship of this size during a storm. The thrashing water at one end, against the shingle or sand at the other, would tear her apart.’

‘How then would you run from a storm, Khalkeus?’

‘You would not run, Helikaon. You would either ride the waves, or seek shelter anchored in the lee of an island or an outcrop of rocks. The ship I propose would not fear storms.’

Helikaon had stared hard at him for a moment. Then he had relaxed, and given a rare smile. ‘A ship to ride a storm. I like that. We will build her, Khalkeus.’

Khalkeus had been stunned – and suddenly frightened. He knew of the Golden One’s reputation. If the new ship proved a failure Helikaon might kill him. On the other hand, if it was a success Khalkeus would be wealthy again, and could continue his experiments.

Khalkeus looked into the young man’s eyes. ‘It is said you can be cruel and deadly. It is said you chop the heads from those who offend you.’

Helikaon had leaned forward. ‘It is also said that I am a demigod, born of Aphrodite. And that you are a madman, or a fool. What does it matter what gossips say? Give me of your best, Khalkeus, and I will reward you, whether what you do is successful or not. All I ask of men who serve me is that they put their hearts into it. No more can be demanded.’

And so it had begun.

The wind picked up as the ship cleared the harbour, and Khalkeus felt the swell increase in power.

Once at sea the mast was raised, the crossbeam tied in place, and the sail released. A southerly breeze rippled the canvas. Khalkeus glanced up. A huge black horse, rearing defiantly, had been painted on the sail. The crew cheered as they saw it.

Khalkeus eased his way to the prow on unsteady legs.

Off to the port side a group of dolphins were leaping and diving, their sleek bodies glistening in the sunlight. Khalkeus looked up at the sky. Away to the north dark clouds were forming.

And the Xanthos clove through the waves towards them.

ii

Argurios of Mykene steadied himself on the shifting deck, and glanced across at the stocky, red-headed Khalkeus. Everyone said he was a madman. Argurios hoped this was not true. He dreamed of dying on a battlefield, cutting down his enemies and earning himself a place in the Elysian Fields. To dine in the Golden Hall, fashioned by Hephaistos, and sit alongside men such as Herakles, Ormenion and the mighty Alektruon. His dreams did not include slipping below the waves in full battle armour. Yet, if he had to die on this cursed boat, then it was only fitting that, as a Mykene warrior, he went to his death with his sword, helmet and breastplate. So it was that he stood in the morning sunshine fully armed. He watched with interest as the crew moved smoothly about the deck, and noted the racks of bows and quivers of arrows neatly stored below the rails. There were swords too, and small, round bucklers. If the Xanthos was attacked the sailors would transform themselves into fighting men within moments.

The Golden One left little to chance.

On the high curve of the prow was a device Argurios had not seen on any other ship. It was a wooden structure, bolted to the deck in four places. It was a curious piece, seeming to have no purpose. A jutting section of timber rose from its centre, topped by what appeared to be a basket. At first he had thought it would be used to load cargo, but on closer examination he realized that the basket could not be lowered over the side. The entire piece was a mystery, which he assumed he would solve during the near month-long journey to Troy.

Argurios glanced towards the rear deck, where Helikaon stood at the great steering oar. It had been hard to believe that any man could have defeated Alektruon the Swordsman. He was a legend among the Mykene. A giant of a man, fearless and mighty. Argurios was proud to have fought alongside him.

Yet the full horror of the day was well known. Argurios himself heard the tale from the single survivor. The man had been brought back to Mykene on a cargo vessel, and was taken before Agamemnon the king. The sailor had been in a pitiful state. The stump of his wrist still bled, and there was a bad odour emanating from it. Skeletally thin, he had a bluish sheen to his lips and he could hardly stand. It was obvious to all that he was dying. Agamemnon had a chair brought for him. The story he told was stark and simple.

The mighty Alektruon was dead, his crew massacred, the legendary Hydra set adrift, its sail and decks ablaze.

‘How did he die?’ asked Agamemnon, his cold, hard eyes staring at the dying sailor.

Argurios remembered the man had shivered suddenly, as the harsh memories returned. ‘We had boarded their vessel and victory was ours. Then the Golden One attacked. He was like a demon. It was terrible. Terrible. He cut three men down, then tore at Alektruon. It was a short fight. He plunged his blade into Alektruon’s neck, then hacked his head from his body. We fought on for a while, but when it was hopeless we threw down our weapons. Then the Golden One, his armour covered in blood, shouted, “Kill all but one!” I saw his eyes then. He was insane. Possessed. Someone grabbed me and pinned my arms. Then all my comrades were hacked to death.’

The man had fallen silent.

‘And then?’ asked Agamemnon.

‘Then I was dragged before Helikaon. He had removed his helmet and was standing there with Alektruon’s head in his hands. He was staring into the dead eyes.

“You do not deserve to see the Fields of Elysium,” he said. Then he stabbed the blade through Alektruon’s eyes.’

The warriors gathered in the Lion’s Hall had cried out in rage and despair as they heard this. Even the grim and normally expressionless Agamemnon had gasped.

‘He sent him blind into the Underworld?’

‘Yes, my king. When the deed was done he hurled the head over the side. Then he turned to me.’ The man squeezed shut his eyes, as if trying to block the remembered scene.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said: “You will live to report what you have seen here, but you will be a raider no longer.” Then, at his command, two men stretched my arm over the deck rail, and the Golden One hacked my hand away.’

The man had died two days after telling his story.

The defeat of Alektruon had tarnished the Mykene reputation of invincibility.

His death had been a sore blow to the pride of all warriors. His funeral games had been muted and depressing. Argurios had gained no satisfaction there, despite winning a gem-encrusted goblet in the javelin contest. There was an air of disbelief among the grieving fighting men. Alektruon’s exploits had been legendary. He had led raids from Samothraki in the north, all the way down the eastern coast as far as Palestine. He had even sacked a village less than a day’s ride from Troy itself.

News of his defeat and death had been met with incredulity. Word had spread through the villages and towns, and people had gathered in meeting places and squares to discuss it. Argurios had the feeling that in years to come all Mykene would remember exactly what they were doing the moment they heard of Alektruon’s passing.

Argurios gazed with quiet hatred at the Golden One. Then he sent a silent prayer to Ares, the God of War. ‘May it fall to me to avenge Alektruon! May it be my sword that cuts the heart from this cursed Trojan!’

iii

The wind stayed favourable, and the Xanthos sped across the waves. Slowly the green island of Kypros faded from sight. On the rear deck, alongside Helikaon, stood the powerful figure of Zidantas. At fifty he was the oldest man in the crew, and had sailed these waters for close to thirty-five years. In all that time, through storms and gales, he had never once been wrecked. Almost all his childhood friends had died. Some had drowned when their vessels foundered. Others had been murdered by pirates. Two had succumbed to the coughing sickness, and one had been killed over a lost goat. Zidantas knew he had been lucky. Today he was wondering whether his luck was running out. The Xanthos had set sail just before midday, and, though the friendly, southerly wind was in their favour now, Zidantas was worried.

Usually a vessel from Kypros, travelling north, would leave no later than dawn, cross the narrowest section of open sea to the rocky coastline of Lykia, and then find a sheltered bay for the night. All sailors preferred to beach their vessels at dusk, and sleep on dry land. The crew of the Xanthos offered no exceptions to this rule. They were brave men, and daring when circumstances demanded it, but all of them had lost friends or kinsmen to the capricious cruelty of the sea gods. They had waved goodbye to comrades setting sail on calm waters beneath a blue sky, never to be seen again in this life. Ferocious storms, treacherous coastlines, pirates, and rocky shoals, all took their toll on the men who lived and worked upon the Great Green.

Out of sight of land the crew grew silent. Many of the rowers emerged from the lower deck to stand at the rail and gaze out over the sea. There was little conversation. Like Khalkeus they began to listen to the groaning of timbers, and to feel the movement of the ship beneath them. And they gazed with fearful eyes around the horizon, seeking any sign of anger in the skies.

Zidantas both shared and understood their fears. They had heard sailors from other vessels mocking this new ship, and issuing dire warnings about the perils of sailing upon it. The Death Ship they called her. Many of the older members of the crew could also recall other large ships being built and sailing to their doom. Zidantas knew what they were thinking. The Xanthos feels fine now, but what will happen when Poseidon swims?

He gazed at the silent men and felt a sudden surge of pride.

Zidantas never sailed with cowards. He could read a fighting man, and had always cast his eye over a crew before joining it. These men were fearful now of the unknown, but if a storm did break, or pirates appeared, they would react with courage and skill. As they had on the Ithaka the day Alektruon attacked.

The memory of that day haunted him still, and he sighed.

White gulls swooped overhead, wheeling and diving above the black horse sail.

The wind picked up. Zidantas glanced at the sky. Sudden storms were notorious during the autumn months, and few trading ships ventured far once summer was over. ‘If the wind changes,’ he said.

‘There was a storm two days ago,’ said Helikaon. ‘Unlikely to be another so soon.’

‘Unlikely – but not impossible,’ muttered Zidantas.

‘Take the oar, Ox,’ Helikaon told him, stepping aside. ‘You’ll feel more at ease with the ship under your control.’

‘I’d feel more at ease back home, sitting quietly in the sunshine,’ grumbled Zidantas.

Helikaon shook his head. ‘With six young daughters around when do you have the chance to sit quietly at home?’

Zidantas relaxed, and gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘It’s never quiet,’ he agreed as he glanced over the side, reading the swell of the sea. ‘She’s smoother than I thought she would be. I would have expected more roll.’ Zidantas curled his massive arm over the steering oar. ‘I’d be happier, though, had we waited for tomorrow’s dawn. We have left no room for error. It tempts the gods.’

‘You are a Hittite,’ replied Helikaon. ‘You don’t believe in our gods.’

‘I never said that!’ muttered Zidantas, nervous now. ‘Maybe there are different gods in different lands. I have no wish to cause offence to any of them. Nor should you. Most especially when sailing a new ship.’

‘True,’ answered Helikaon, ‘but our gods are not quite as merciless as yours.

Tell me, is it true that when a Hittite prince dies they burn twenty of his soldiers along with him to guard him in the Underworld?’

‘No, not any more. It was an old custom,’ Zidantas told him. ‘Though the Gypptos still bury slaves with their pharaohs, I understand.’

Helikaon shook his head. ‘What an arrogant species we are. Why should a slave or a soldier still serve a master after death? What possible incentive could there be?’

‘I do not know,’ answered Zidantas. ‘I never had a slave, and I am not a Hittite prince.’

Helikaon moved to the deck rail and glanced along the line of the ship. ‘You are right. She is moving well. I must ask Khalkeus about it. But first I will speak to our passengers.’ Helikaon leapt down the three steps to the main deck, and crossed to where the Mykene passengers were standing.

Even from his vantage point on the rear deck, and unable to hear the conversation, Zidantas could tell the elder Mykene hated Helikaon. He stood stiffly, his right hand fingering the hilt of his short sword, his face impassive. Helikaon seemed oblivious of the man’s malevolence. Zidantas saw him chatting, apparently at ease. When at last Helikaon moved away, seeking out Khalkeus at the prow, the bearded Mykene stared after him with a look of anger.

Zidantas was worried. He had argued against the decision two days ago when Helikaon had agreed to allow the Mykene to take passage to Troy. ‘Let them take the Mirion,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching them overload her with copper. She’ll wallow like a drunken sow. They’ll either be sick the whole voyage, or end up dining with Poseidon.’

‘I built the Xanthos for cargo and passengers,’ Helikaon had said. ‘And Argurios is an ambassador heading for Troy. It would be discourteous to refuse him passage.’

‘Discourteous? We’ve sunk three Mykene galleys now. They hate you.’

‘‘Pirate galleys,’ corrected Helikaon. ‘And Mykene hate almost everyone. It is their nature.’ His blue eyes had grown paler, his expression hardening. Zidantas knew that look well, and it always chilled his blood. It brought back memories of blood and death best left locked away in the deep vaults of the subconscious.

The Xanthos powered on. Zidantas leaned in to the steering oar. The ship felt good beneath his feet, and he began to wonder if indeed the Madman from Miletos might have been right. He fervently hoped so.

Just then he heard one of the crew shout: ‘Man in the water!’

Zidantas scanned the sea to starboard. At first he saw nothing in the vast emptiness. Then he caught sight of a length of driftwood, sliding between the troughs of the waves.

A man was clinging to it.

i

Gershom no longer had any lasting sense of where he was, nor of the links between dreams and reality. The skin of his shoulders and arms was blistered by the sun, his hands clenched to the wood in a death grip he could no longer feel.

Voices whispered in his mind, urging him to let go, to know peace. He ignored them. Visions swam across his eyes: birds with wings of fire; a man carrying a staff that slithered in his hands, becoming a hooded serpent; a three-headed lion with a scaled body. Then he saw hundreds of young men cutting and crafting a great block of stone. One by one they laid their bodies against it. Slowly they sank into the stone as if it were water. At last all Gershom could see were hands, with questing fingers, seeking to escape the tomb of rock they had crafted. And the voices continued ceaselessly. One sounded like his grandfather, stern and unforgiving. Another was his mother, pleading with him to behave like a lord, and not some drunken oaf. He tried to answer her, but his lips were cracked, his tongue nothing but a dried stick in his mouth. Then came the voice of his little brother, who had died last spring. ‘Be with me, kinsman. It is so lonely here.’

He might have given in then, but the driftwood tilted and his bloodshot eyes opened. He saw a black horse floating over the sea. After a while he felt something touch his body, and opened his eyes. A powerful bald-headed man with a forked beard was floating alongside him. Gershom recognized him, but could not remember from where.

‘He is alive!’ he heard the man shout. ‘Throw down a rope.’ Then the man spoke to him. ‘You can let go now. You are safe.’

Gershom clung on. No dream voices were going to lure him to his death.

The driftwood thumped against the side of a ship. Gershom looked up at the bank of oars above him. Men were leaning out of the ports. A rope was tied round his waist, and he felt himself being lifted from the water. ‘Let go of the wood,’ said his bearded rescuer.

Now Gershom wanted to, but he could not. There was no feeling in his hands. The swimmer gently prised his fingers open. The rope tightened and he was lifted from the sea, and pulled over the deck rail, where he flopped to the timbers. He cried out as the raw sunburn on his back scraped against the wood, the cry tearing the dry tissue of his throat. A young man with black hair and startlingly blue eyes squatted down next to him. ‘Fetch some water,’ he said.

Gershom was helped to a sitting position, and a cup was held to his mouth. At first his parched throat was unable to swallow. Each time he tried he gagged.

‘Slowly!’ advised the blue-eyed man. ‘Hold it in your mouth. Allow it to trickle down.’

Swirling the liquid around his mouth he tried again. A small amount of cool water flowed down his throat. He had never tasted anything so sweet and fulfilling.

Then he passed out.

When he awoke he was lying under a makeshift tent, erected near the prow. A freckle-faced youngster was sitting beside him. The boy saw his eyes open, and stood and ran back along the deck. Moments later his rescuer ducked under the tent flap and sat beside him. ‘We meet again, Gyppto. You are a lucky fellow. Had we not been delayed we would certainly have missed you. I am Zidantas.’

‘I… am… grateful. Thank… you.’ Heaving himself to a sitting position Gershom reached for the water jug. Only then did he see that his hands were bandaged.

‘You cut yourself badly,’ said Zidantas. ‘You’ll heal, though. Here, let me help.’ So saying he lifted the leather-covered jug. Gershom drank, this time a little more deeply. From where he sat he could see along the length of the ship, and recognized it. His heart sank.

‘Yes,’ said the giant, reading his expression, ‘you are on the Xanthos. But I know the hearts of ships. This one is mighty. She is the queen of the sea – and she knows it.’

Gershom smiled – then winced as his lower lip split. ‘You rest, fellow,’

Zidantas told him. ‘Your strength will soon come back, and you can earn your passage as a crewman.’

‘You… do… not know me,’ said Gershom. ‘I am … no sailor.’

‘Perhaps not. You have courage, though, and strength. And, by Hades, you sailed a piece of driftwood well enough.’

Gershom lay back. Zidantas spoke on, but his voice became a rhythmic murmur and Gershom faded into a dreamless sleep.

ii

Helikaon stood at the steering oar, adjusting his balance as the great ship clove through the waves. The dolphins had returned, leaping and diving alongside the vessel, and he watched them for a while, his normally restless mind relaxed and at peace. Only at sea could he find this exhilarating sense of freedom.

On land there were so many tedious distractions. With more than fifty ships in his fleet there were constantly problems to solve. Authorizations for repairs to galleys, reports to read from his captains, meetings with his senior scribes and treasurers, checking the tallies of cargo shipped against the goods or metals received in exchange. His lands too needed supervision, and though he had good men marshalling his horse herds, and patrolling his borders, there were still matters only he could resolve. His heart lifted as he thought of young Diomedes.

His half-brother was almost twelve now, and within a few years would be able to take on real responsibility. The blond-haired boy had begged to be allowed to sail on the Xanthos. His mother had forbidden it.

‘I am the king,’ Diomedes had said. ‘People should obey me.’

‘You will be king, and people will obey you,’ Helikaon had told him. ‘But for now, little brother, we must both obey the queen.’

‘It is not fair,’ complained Diomedes. ‘You sailed with Odysseus on the Penelope when you were young.’

‘I was three years older than you. However, the next time I see Odysseus I will ask him if you can sail with him one day.’

‘Would you do that? Oh, that would be wonderful. You would allow that, wouldn’t you, mama?’

The slender, golden-haired queen, Halysia, gave Helikaon a look of affectionate reproach. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If Odysseus will have you.’

‘Oh, he will,’ said Diomedes, ‘for I am just as brave as Helikaon.’

‘Braver,’ Helikaon told him. ‘When I was your age I was frightened of everything.’

‘Even spiders?’

‘Especially spiders.’

The boy sighed. ‘Oh, Helikaon, I wish I could come to Troy with you. I’d like to meet great-uncle Priam, and Hektor. Is it true you are going to marry the beautiful Kreusa?’

‘No, it is not true. And what would you know about beautiful women?’

‘I know they are supposed to have big breasts and to kiss men all the time. And Kreusa is beautiful, isn’t she? Pausanius says she is.’

‘Yes, she is beautiful to look at. Her hair is dark and long and she has a pretty smile.’

‘Then why won’t you marry her? Great-uncle Priam wants you to, doesn’t he? And mother says it would be good for Dardania. And you said we both had to obey mother.’

Helikaon had shrugged, and spread his hands. ‘All this is true, little brother.

But your mother and I have an understanding. I will serve her loyally in all matters. But I have decided to marry only when I meet a woman I love.’

‘Why can’t you do both?’ asked the boy. ‘Pausanius has a wife and two mistresses. He says he loves them all.’

‘Pausanius is a rascal,’ said Helikaon.

Queen Halysia had stepped in to rescue him from the boy’s questioning. ‘Helikaon can marry for love because he is not a king, and does not have to consider the needs of the realm. But you, little man, will be a king, and if you are not a good boy I shall choose a wife for you who is dull and cross-eyed and buck-toothed… and bandy-legged.’

Diomedes had laughed, the sound rich and full of life. ‘I shall choose my own wife,’ he said, ‘and she will be beautiful. And she will adore me.’

Yes, she will, thought Helikaon. Diomedes would be a good-looking man, and his nature was sweet and considerate.

The wind was picking up and Helikaon leaned in to the steering oar. His thoughts turned to Priam’s favourite daughter. Kreusa was – as he had told Diomedes –

very beautiful. But she was also greedy and grasping, with eyes that shone only when gold was reflected in them.

But then, could she have been any different, he wondered, raised as she was in a loveless palace by a father who considered nothing of worth, save that which could be placed upon his scales.

Helikaon had no doubt that it was Priam who had ordered Kreusa to flatter and woo him. The lands of Dardania, directly north of Troy, had never been rich.

There were no mines supplying mineral wealth in gold, copper, silver or tin. But Dardania was fertile, and its grasslands fed horse herds of surprising strength and endurance. Corn was also plentiful. Helikaon’s growing wealth as a merchant prince had also financed the building of ports, allowing access to the trade goods of Egypte and all the lands to the south and west. Dardania was growing in wealth, and therefore power. Of course Priam would seek an alliance with his northern neighbour. No doubt in a few years Priam would seek to marry one of his daughters to Diomedes. Helikaon smiled. Perhaps strange little Kassandra, or gentle Laodike. The smile faded. Or even Kreusa. The thought of his little brother wed to such a creature was dispiriting.

Perhaps I am being unfair to her, he thought.

Priam had little time for most of the fifty children he had sired on his three wives and thirty concubines. Those he drew close had been forced to prove their value to him. His daughters were carelessly sold to foreign princes in exchange for alliances; his sons laboured either in his treasuries, or in the priesthood or the army. Of them all, he lavished what passed for affection on only two: Kreusa and Hektor. His daughter understood the secrets of gathering wealth; Hektor was unbeatable upon the battlefield. Both were assets that needed to be maintained.

It even seemed to amuse the old man that many of his children plotted his death, seeking to overthrow him. His spies would report on their movements, and then, just before they could act upon their plans, he would have them arrested. In the last three years Priam had ordered the deaths of five of his sons.

Pushing aside thoughts of Priam, Helikaon gazed up at the sky. It was a cloudless brilliant blue, and the southerly breeze remained strong and true.

Mostly, as summer ended, the prevailing winds were from the northwest, making the crossing a hard day’s work for the oarsmen. Not today. The Xanthos, sail billowing, cut through the waves, rising and falling with grace and power.

Helikaon saw Khalkeus pacing up and down the main deck, one hand holding his straw hat in place. Occasionally the pitch of the ship would cause him to stumble and grab for a deck rail. He was a landsman, and completely out of place at sea – which made it all the more strange that he should have designed and built a ship of such beauty.

Up at the prow, Zidantas left the makeshift tent where the shipwrecked man had been carried and made his way to the rear deck.

‘Will he live?’ asked Helikaon.

‘Yes. Tough man. He’ll survive – but it’s not him I’m worried about.’

Helikaon looked the giant in the eye. ‘You are always worried about something, Ox. You are never happy unless there is a problem to grind your teeth over.’

‘Probably true,’ admitted Zidantas, ‘but there’s a storm coming.’

Helikaon swung to gaze back towards the south. Zidantas’ ability to read the weather bordered on the mystical. The southern sky was still clear, and, at first, Helikaon thought the Ox might – at last – be wrong. Then he concentrated on the line of the horizon behind them. It was no longer clean and sharp, signalling rough water. He glanced at the black horse sail. The wind was still fresh and favourable, but it was beginning to gust. ‘How long?’ he asked.

Zidantas shrugged.

‘We’ll see it before we see land, and it will be upon us before we beach.’

The stocky figure of Khalkeus came marching towards them, head down. He climbed the three steps to the rear deck. ‘I have been thinking about what you said,’ he told Helikaon. ‘I think the fins may be the answer. As you know…’

‘Fins?’ queried Zidantas.

The shipwright stared at him coldly. ‘Interruptions are irritating. They disturb the flow of my thoughts. Kindly wait until I have finished.’ He leaned forward for extra emphasis, but his hat flopped down over his eyes. Angrily he wrenched it from his head, and swung back towards Helikaon. ‘As I was saying… you know I had deep planking bolted to the hull, fore and aft, to help keep the ship upright when beached?’

‘A sound idea,’ said Helikaon.

‘Indeed so. However, it is serving a separate and wholly beneficial purpose while at sea. The jut of the fins is countering the shallow draught. I should have realized it when I was designing them. I might have extended them further.

They should also make it easier for the steersman. It is my understanding you have to aim the boat at a point above – or below, depending on the current and the wind – the point at which you wish to beach. My feeling is the boat will sail straighter, with less drift. Very pleasing.’

‘Well, let’s hope they also add some speed,’ said Zidantas. ‘There is a storm coming up behind us. It would be nice to beach before it hits.’

‘Oh, you can’t do that,’ said Khalkeus.

‘We can’t beach?’

‘Of course you could. But then the storm you speak of would wreck the Xanthos.’

‘It can’t wreck us on land!’

Helikaon cut in. ‘What Khalkeus is saying, Ox, is that we cannot fully beach the Xanthos. She is too large. We don’t have the men to haul her completely out of the sea, and if we did, we couldn’t float her again.’

‘Exactly!’ said the shipwright.

‘Surely we can get enough of her on the sand,’ insisted Zidantas.

‘If the storm is a violent one the ship would break up,’ said Helikaon. ‘Half on solid ground, half being thrashed around on the water. The stresses would crack the hull.’

‘Then what do we do?’ asked Zidantas.

‘You need to ride the storm – or find a sheltered edge of land,’ Khalkeus told him.

‘Ride it! Are you mad?’

‘Apparently I am,’ answered Khalkeus. ‘Ask anyone. Even so I have better things to do than swap insults with an imbecile.’ With that he strode from the rear deck.

The giant took a deep breath, and held it for a moment. ‘There are times when I imagine myself taking my club to that man.’ He sighed. ‘We could make for Bad Luck Bay, drop anchor offshore, and use the oars to stop us being driven onto the beach.’

‘No, Ox. Even with a full crew that would be nigh impossible,’ said Helikaon.

‘Fighting a storm for an hour would exhaust them. What if it lasts all night?

We’d be hurled onto the beach and wrecked.’

‘I know – but then we’d survive, at least. There aren’t any other choices.’

Helikaon shook his head. ‘There is one. As Khalkeus said, we will ride it.’

‘No, no, no!’ said Zidantas, leaning in close and dropping his voice. ‘The Xanthos is untried in heavy weather. She is a good ship, right enough, but my back is already aching. This is going to be heavy, Helikaon. Like a hammer.’ He paused. ‘And the crew won’t stand for it. They are already frightened. Running for the beach may break up the ship, but they know they’ll live. There’s no way even you could convince them to turn into the storm.’

Helikaon looked at his friend, and saw the fear in his large, honest face.

Zidantas adored his six daughters, and had spoken often in the last year of leaving the sea and watching them grow. Helikaon had given him a share in all profits, and Zidantas was now a rich man. There was no longer any need to risk his life on the Great Green. It was a difficult moment. Zidantas was too proud to speak the truth from his heart, but Helikaon could read it in his eyes. The big Hittite was as terrified as the crew would be.

Helikaon could not look at Zidantas as he spoke. ‘I must ride this storm, Ox,’

he said at last, his voice gentle. ‘I need to know if the Xanthos has a great heart. So I am asking you to stand beside me.’ He glanced back at the giant.

‘I’ll always be there when you need me, Golden One,’ said Zidantas, his shoulders sagging.

‘Then let us rest the crew for a while. Then we’ll put them through some gentle manoeuvres. By the time the storm is apparent to them we will be too far from land for them to do anything but follow orders and ride it out.’

‘We have a lot of new men aboard,’ said Zidantas. ‘You are taking a huge risk. A clash of oars as we turn, or panic among the oarsmen, and we’ll be swamped.’

‘You chose this crew, Ox. You never hire cowards.’ He gave a broad grin. ‘It’ll be something to tell your grandchilden. We swam with Poseidon on the greatest ship ever built.’

The forced humour was wasted on Zidantas. ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ he muttered despondently.

Helikaon glanced along the lines of the Xanthos.

And hoped the Madman from Miletos was right.

i

Xander had begun to doze in the sunshine. A sailor tripped over him, and cursed. Xander muttered an embarrassed apology and climbed to his feet. Then he realized someone was calling his name. He spun round, and almost fell as the ship pitched. He saw it was Zidantas summoning him, and ran to the rear deck. ‘Take water to the rowers,’ said the big man. ‘It’ll be damn hot down there. Tell Oniacus to rest the men, and allow them on deck in sections of twenty.’ ‘Sections of twenty,’ repeated Xander. ‘Well, go on then, boy.’

‘Yes, Zidantas.’ He paused. ‘Where will I find water?’

‘There are full skins on hooks at the centre of both the oar decks.’

Xander moved down to the hatch, opened it and clambered down the vertical steps.

It was gloomy and hot here. With the ship under sail now he saw that the rowers had lifted their oars, locking the handles into leather loops. Finding the water skins he unhooked one then carried it to the first rower on the port side, a broad-shouldered young man with thickly curled black hair.

‘Where is Oniacus?’ he asked, as the sailor pulled out the wooden plug and hefted the water sack. He drank deeply.

‘That would be me.’

‘Zidantas says to rest the men and allow them on deck in twenty sections.’

‘Sections of twenty,’ corrected Oniacus.

‘Yes.’

‘You are sure of the orders? We don’t normally rest this close to land.’

‘I am sure.’

The man grinned at him. ‘You’d be Xander. Your father spoke of you. Said when you were seven or eight you took on a pack of wild dogs.’

‘It was one dog,’ said Xander. ‘It was attacking our goats.’

Oniacus laughed. ‘You are very honest, boy. And I can see your father in you.’

He passed the water sack back to Xander. Then he called out, ‘We’re going to see some sunlight, lads. Every third man aloft – and make sure those oars are sheathed tight.’ Men began to ease themselves from the rowing benches and make their way to the hatches. Oniacus remained where he was. ‘Take water to the men remaining,’ he told Xander.

The boy struggled along the cramped and shifting deck, offering drinks to the sweating crewmen. Most thanked him, some joked with him. Then he came alongside a thin, older man, who was pricking blisters on his hand with a curved dagger blade. His palms were sore and bleeding. ‘They look painful,’ said Xander. The rower ignored him, but took the water sack and drank deeply.

Oniacus appeared alongside, carrying a bucket on a rope. Leaning out of the oar port he lowered the bucket into the sea, then drew it up. ‘Put your hands in this, Attalus,’ he said. ‘The salt water will dry out those blisters, and the skin will harden in no time.’ The sailor silently bathed his hands then leaned back. Oniacus dipped thin strips of cloth in the water. ‘Now I’ll bind them,’ he said.

‘They don’t need binding,’ replied the rower.

‘Then you are a tougher man than me, Attalus,’ said Oniacus amiably. ‘At the start of every new season my hands bleed, and the oar handle feels as if it’s on fire.’

‘It is unpleasant,’ agreed the man, his tone softening.

‘You can always try the straps. If they don’t work for you, then remove them.’

The rower nodded, and offered his hands. Oniacus wrapped the wet cloth round Attalus’ blistered palms, splitting the cloth and knotting it at the wrists.

‘This is Xander,’ he said, as he applied the bandages. ‘His father was my friend. He died in a battle last year. Fine man.’

‘The dead are always fine men,’ said Attalus coldly. ‘My father was a drunken wretch, who broke my mother’s bones. At his funeral men wept at the loss of his greatness.’

‘There is truth in that,’ agreed Oniacus. ‘However, on the Ithaka – as on the Xanthos – there were only fine men. Ox does not choose wretches. He has a magic eye which sees our hearts. I have to say that sometimes it is infuriating. We are sailing short-handed because of it. Ox turned away at least twenty yesterday.’ Oniacus swung to Xander. ‘Time for you to return to your duties,’ he said.

Xander hung the near-empty water sack on its hook and climbed to the upper deck.

Helikaon called him over. He lifted a wax-sealed jug, broke the seal and filled two copper cups with a golden liquid. ‘Take these to our Mykene passengers,’ he said.

Xander carried the cups carefully down the steps and across the shifting deck.

It was not easy retaining balance, and he was pleased that not a drop of the liquid was spilled. ‘The lord Helikaon asked me to bring these to you,’ he said.

The man with the cold hard face took them from him without a word of thanks.

Xander scurried away without looking him in the eye. He was the most frightening man Xander had ever seen. From the other side of the deck he watched them salute the Golden One and drink. They were standing close to the deck rail and Xander found himself hoping the ship would pitch suddenly and throw them both over the side. Then he noticed that the older warrior was looking at him. He felt a stab of fear, wondering if the evil one could read his mind. The Mykene held out the goblet, and Xander realized he was supposed to retrieve them. Swiftly he crossed the deck, collected the goblets and took them to Zidantas.

‘What should I do now?’ he asked.

‘Go and watch the dolphins, Xander,’ said Ox. ‘When you are needed you will be summoned.’

Xander returned to where he had left his small bag of possessions. Inside there was a block of cheese and some dried fruit. Hungry now, he sat and ate. The grumpy old shipwright came past at one point, and almost trod on him.

The boy found the next two hours fascinating. Helikaon and Zidantas shouted out orders and the Xanthos danced upon the waves. The port-side rowers would lean in to their oars just as the starboard men lifted theirs from the water. The Xanthos would lurch and spin, changing direction, then surge forward once more as both banks of oars bit into the waves. Xander loved every minute of it – especially when the younger Mykene warrior fell to his knees and threw up. The older one, with the hard face, looked somewhat green, but he held grimly to the deck rail, staring out at sea. At last the manoeuvres were over and Zidantas called out for the men to rest.

The wind was gusting a little now, rippling the black horse sail. Xander glanced towards the south. The sky was darker there. Many of the oarsmen had climbed to the upper deck. Most, like him, also stared towards the south. Some of them gathered together and Xander heard someone say: ‘Poseidon swims. We’ll be lucky to make land before the storm hits.’

‘It’s that cursed Gyppto,’ said someone else. Xander stared at him. The speaker was a wide-shouldered man, with thinning blond hair and a straggly beard.

‘Poseidon took him once, and we thwarted him.’

This was a disquieting thought, and it frightened Xander. Everyone knew Poseidon

could be an angry god, but it had not occurred to him that an immortal might have wanted this stranger to be swallowed by the sea. The conversation continued. Other men joined in. Xander could feel their fear as they discussed how best to placate the god. ‘Need to throw him back,’ said the man with the straggly beard. ‘It’s the only way. Otherwise we’ll all be dead.’ There were some grunts of agreement, but most of the men stayed silent. Only one spoke against the plan. It was the curly-haired lead oarsman, Oniacus.

‘A little early to be talking about murder, Epeus, don’t you think?’

‘He is marked by Poseidon,’ replied Epeus. ‘I don’t want to kill anyone, but the man is beyond saving. If the god wants him he will take him. You want us to be dragged down with him?’

Xander saw that the two Mykene warriors were also listening to the men, but they kept their own counsel. As the wind picked up, and the ship began to pitch more violently, Xander moved away from the crew and made his way to the rear deck.

The man with the straw hat was there, talking to Zidantas and the Golden One.

Xander waited at the foot of the steps, unsure now of what to do. He didn’t want to see the injured man thrown over the side, but, equally, he did not want to incur the wrath of Poseidon. He tried to think of what his father might have done. Would he have thrown the man back into the sea? Xander didn’t think so.

His father was a hero. The Golden One had said so. Heroes did not murder helpless men.

Xander climbed to the stern deck. The Golden One saw him. ‘Do not fear a little breeze, Xander,’ he said.

‘I am not frightened of the wind, lord,’ said Xander, and told him what he had heard from the oarsmen. Before the lord could reply, a group of sailors began to gather below them. Xander turned and saw two seamen half dragging the shipwrecked man through the throng.

‘Poseidon is angry!’ shouted the burly Epeus. ‘We must give back what we stole from him, Golden One.’

Helikaon moved past Xander and stared down at the sailors. He raised his hand and there was instant silence, save for the howling of the wind. For a moment Helikaon did not speak, merely stood. ‘You are a fool, Epeus,’ he said finally.

‘Poseidon was not angry. But he is angry nowV He pointed at the troublemaker.

‘You have brought his fury down upon us.’

‘I have done nothing, lord!’ answered Epeus, his voice suddenly fearful.

‘Oh, but you have!’ roared Helikaon. ‘You think Poseidon is such a weak god that he could not kill a single man who has been in the sea for two days? You think he could not have dragged him down in a heartbeat, as he did with others of his crew? No. The great God of the Sea did not want him dead. He wanted him alive.

He wanted the Xanthos to rescue him. And now you have assaulted him, and are threatening to kill him. You may have doomed us all. For now, as all can see, Poseidon swims!’ Even as he spoke the sky grew darker. Thunder boomed.

‘What can we do, lord?’ shouted another man.

‘We cannot run,’ Helikaon told them. ‘Poseidon hates cowards. We must turn and face the great god like men, and show that we are worthy of his blessing. Take in the sail! All oarsmen to the lower deck, and await command. Do it now! And swiftly.’

The men scattered to obey him, leaving Gershom sitting, bewildered, on the deck. Zidantas leaned in to Xander. ‘Help him back to the midships. There will be less heave and pitch there. Tie yourselves to the mast. We are in for a wild ride.’ Xander scrambled down to the deck, which was now pitching and twisting under his feet. He fell, then rose and took Gershom by the arm. Helping him to stand he led the way forward. It was almost impossible to stay upright, and they stumbled several times before reaching the mast. Xander looped a trailing rope round Gershom, tying it tight. Then he glanced around for something to tie to himself. There was nothing. The storm swept down on them, the wind howling, rain lashing the decks. Xander clung on to the rope round Gershom. The big man reached out with a bandaged hand, and drew him close. Above the howling of the wind Xander heard Zidantas bellowing orders to the oarsmen. The ship swung, then rocked wildly as a huge wave crashed against the hull. Slowly the Xanthos turned into the storm. Another massive wave struck the beam, washing over the main deck. Xander almost lost hold of the rope as his body was gripped by the wave and dragged sideways. Gershom cried out as his injured hand gripped the boy’s tunic, holding him in place.

A scream came from above. One of the sailors tying the sail had been dislodged. Xander saw him fall. His body smashed into the deck rail on the starboard side, tearing a section loose. Then he was gone. Darkness descended. Afternoon passed into evening and then into night. Xander clung to the rope as the storm lashed the great ship. He held on as tightly as he could, but after a while his fingers were numb, and his strength began to fail. Only Gershom’s powerful grip kept him from being swept away. The darkness was interspersed with brilliant flashes of lightning, followed by thunderclaps so loud Xander felt they would tear the ship apart. The deck heaved, one moment tilting up, throwing him back, then plunging down, causing him to spin forwards. Cold, wet and terrified, he prayed for life. Ever more weary, the boy clung on. The Xanthos was heading into the storm now, climbing the waves, then sliding into the troughs. Water cascaded over the prow. Suddenly the ship lurched, as the tiring port-side rowers momentarily lost their rhythm. A roaring wall of water ripped across the Xanthos. It struck Xander, lifting him and dashing his body against the mast. Half stunned, he lost hold of the rope and was torn from Gershom’s grip. The great ship pitched sharply and Xander slid across the wet deck. Lightning lit the sky. He saw he was sliding inexorably towards the hole in the ruined deck rail. His hands scrabbled for something to cling on to.

As the opening yawned before him he caught a glimpse of shining bronze. The Mykene warrior, Argurios, seeing his plight, had let go of the rail and hurled himself across the deck. His hand grabbed Xander’s tunic, then the two of them spun towards the gaping hole. At the last moment Argurios grabbed a trailing rope. Xander felt the deck slip from under him, and was now directly over the raging sea. He looked up and saw the Mykene was also off the deck, hanging on the rope, his face twisted in a grimace of pain. Xander knew that, in all his armour, Argurios could not save them both. At any moment the Mykene would just let go, and Xander would be doomed.

But he did not let go. The Xanthos leapt and pitched. Argurios was thrown against the side. Xander’s tunic started to rip.

Then the wind began to die down, the rain eased, and moonlight broke through the clouds. Two sailors left their positions of safety and braved the tilting deck.

Xander saw Oniacus grab Argurios, hauling him back to safety. Then Attalus reached down, gripping Xander’s arm, and dragging him to the deck.

Huddled against the deck rail Xander began to tremble. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The Golden One appeared alongside him, patting him on the shoulder. He moved to where Argurios was now standing, kneading his fingers. Xander saw there was blood on Argurios’ hand.

‘That was bravely done,’ said Helikaon.

‘I need no praise from you,’ replied Argurios, turning away and rejoining 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 round 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.’

Now 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 these men, and in you.’

ii

Gershom sat in the bow of the Xanthos, knees drawn up, a ragged piece of cloth round his raw shoulders and sore arms. The storm had passed now, 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 closer more quickly. Never had he been so anxious 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. And the Xanthos inched forward.

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

‘Just overnight,’ replied Zidantas shortly. Without looking to the rear of the ship, he signalled 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 most oars were held high; only six dipped regularly in and out of the water as the Xanthos crept towards 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 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 grey and white cliffs towered high and jagged. At the centre 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, 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 mouth divided the wide strip of white beach neatly in half. Other ships were already 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 travelled 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?’ asked Xander.

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, 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 humour. ‘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 even as he watched. Gershom almost believed he could smell roasting meats. 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 towards 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 towards 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 towards 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 clove the gentle swell like an axe. 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 towards 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, then the stern of the Xantbos 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 both been thrown to the deck but Xander jumped straight up again and joined in the cheering.

He turned to Gershom, his 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 centre 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, shinning down ropes onto dry land.

‘Come on, Gershom!’ Xander had collected his own 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 already 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 arse to you first! Never seen it done with a ship, though.’

A ruddy-faced man in a saffron-coloured 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. Helikaon’s face lit 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, Helikaon waded to the shore and threw his arms round 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 dreamt of.’

‘I remember. To sail beyond Scylla 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.’

i

Xander felt like one of the heroes of legend, the men grandfather spoke of round the night fire before he and his sisters fell asleep. He had crossed the world to a foreign land, a place of enchantment and mystery, where there were different stars shining. And he had met the legendary Odysseus. It was like a wonderful dream.

All along the Bay of the Blue Owls Xander could see handcarts, full of dried driftwood, being hauled onto the beach. There was the smell of roasting meats, and the music of lyres and pipes could be heard round many of the fires. He saw the black-bearded Gyppto, Gershom, move away from the Xanthos men, and sit down with his back to a rock. He had an old piece of cloth round his shoulders, and he was shivering. Xander ran to him. ‘Can I fetch you something?’

Gershom smiled. ‘More water would be good. My throat feels as if I have swallowed a desert.’ Xander moved off, and returned with a water skin. Gershom drank sparingly. Then he lay back on the sand and fell asleep.

Xander sat alongside him for a while as the night wore on. He stared up at the bright stars. He couldn’t actually tell if they were different or not, but guessed they must be. When Gershom started to snore Xander rose from the sand and began to explore. Along the shoreline there were scores of stalls and carts, full of merchandise: jewellery, clothing, pots, jugs, protective amulets, and weapons. Elsewhere there were traders who had set out items on blankets in the sand. There were soothsayers and seers, astrologers and mystics, reading fortunes and making predictions. Everywhere Xander looked there was something exciting to see. He moved through the throng, wide-eyed and full of wonder.

He gazed for a while at a display of dazzling jewellery, earrings, bracelets and copper rings inset with coloured stones. On the next stall were pots and cups, but these were of poor quality. Not nearly as good as those mother made. He pointed this out to the stallholder, an angry little man who swore at him.

Xander danced away as the man threatened to cuff him. He was not frightened.

Xander was a hero who had braved a storm, and felt no fear of a pottery man.

He paused at a clothing stall. It was a jumble of sandals, cloaks, and thigh-length chiton tunics of hard-wearing linen. Hanging lanterns illuminated the wares. Xander reached out and lifted a small sandal. ‘Five copper rings they should go for,’ said a round-faced woman, with missing front teeth. ‘Yet I am feeling generosity tonight, for those who passed through the storm. So I thought four rings? However, I see how you look at them, little sailor, and it warms my heart. So for you I shall make them virtually a gift. A mere three copper rings.’

‘I don’t have any copper rings,’ he said.

‘No rings,’ she repeated, then leaned towards him. ‘But you are a pretty boy, and I know a man who would buy you those sandals if you were nice to him. Would you like to meet him?’

A giant figure moved alongside Xander. ‘No, he would not,’ said Zidantas. He took the sandal from Xander’s hand and examined it. ‘It would bind to his foot in the first rain. He might as well wear sandals made of clay.’

The woman swore at Zidantas, who laughed. ‘Come away, Xander. If you need sandals there is a stall on the far side with items of quality. But first let us eat.’

At a food stall they were each given a bowl of stew and a piece of flat-baked bread. Then Zidantas walked away to a rocky section of the beach, away from the revellers, and sat down. They ate in silence. Xander had not realized how hungry he was. Finishing the stew and the bread he rushed back to another stall, received two honey-baked pies and took one to Zidantas. The giant grinned. ‘I like them well enough, but they make my teeth ache. You eat them both.’

Xander needed no further urging, and devoured them, finally licking the honey from his fingers. ‘This is a wonderful place,’ he said.

Zidantas brushed crumbs from his forked beard. ‘Yes, it is a good bay, and the Fat King feeds sailors well.’

Xander glanced around, and saw Helikaon some distance away, chatting and laughing with sailors from another ship. ‘The Golden One has many friends,’ said Xander.

‘Odysseus is a good friend to have,’ replied Zidantas.

Xander saw soldiers in strange conical helmets and leather breastplates moving through the throng. They were carrying stout clubs.

‘Is there going to be a fight?’ he asked.

‘There are usually one or two before the night wears out,’ Zidantas told him.

‘Unavoidable when you have strong drink, loose women and several hundred sailors. The soldiers will stop them soon enough. They’ll crack a few skulls.’

‘Will people be killed?’

Zidantas shrugged. ‘I’ve known some who died here. Skulls of clay. Mostly there’ll just be head pain and misery.’

Xander looked back at the group around Helikaon. ‘Why is Odysseus a good friend to have?’ he asked.

Zidantas laughed. ‘Your mind flits like a butterfly, boy. You should get some sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow.’

‘I am not tired, Zidantas, truly I’m not. And I don’t want to miss anything.’

Close by he saw a seer, examining a sailor’s hand, and heard him making predictions about the man’s future wealth.

‘How does he know all that?’ he whispered.

‘He doesn’t.’

‘Then why are people giving him copper rings?’

Zidantas laughed. ‘Because they are idiots. Because they are gullible. Because they are sailors.’

‘You are a sailor,’ Xander pointed out.

‘Yes, but I am an old sailor. And they could build palaces with the number of rings I have given to those who promised to read my future.’

‘Can I ask another question?’

‘You are like a ship with a cargo of questions. I have a daughter like you.

Little Thea. Always wants to know answers. Where do the clouds come from? How does the rain get up into them? I come to sea to get away from that, lad.’

‘Is that why you come to sea? Truly?’

Zidantas laughed. ‘No, I was jesting. I miss my girls – especially Thea. Always cries when I put to sea. She’ll be waiting on the beach with her mother when we sail back. She’ll skip and wave, and run into the surf.’ He chuckled. ‘All the ages of children are wonderful to behold – but five is the best, I think. Now what was your question?’

‘The sea is blue,’ said Xander. ‘So why is it called the Great Green?’

‘Now that is a question every sailor asks when he first puts to sea. I asked it many times myself, and was given many answers. When Poseidon became God of the Sea he changed its colour because he preferred blue. Others say that out where the sea is deep, and no ships sail, it shines like an emerald. A Gyppto merchant once told me the Great Green referred originally to a massive river in their lands. The Nile. It floods every year, ripping away vegetation. This is what turns it green. He said that when men first sailed upon it they called it the Great Green, and the name came to mean all the water of the earth. The answer is that I don’t know. I like the sound of it, though. There is a majesty to it, don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Xander. ‘It is a wonderful name.’

Zidantas’ smile faded, and Xander saw him looking at a group of six men some distance away. They were standing together, and staring towards where Helikaon sat with Odysseus and his crew. The newcomers were clustered around a tall, broad-shouldered warrior. He looked a little like Argurios, with a jutting chin beard and no moustache. But this man’s beard and hair seemed almost white in the moonlight. As Xander watched he saw the white-haired young warrior shake his head, then move away with his men. Beside the boy Zidantas relaxed.

‘Who were they?’ asked Xander.

‘Mykene traders. Well, that’s what they call themselves. They are raiders, lad.

Pirates.’

The curly-haired oarsman, Oniacus, moved across to where they sat. He smiled at Xander and ruffled his hair, then squatted down alongside Zidantas. ‘Kolanos is here,’ he said.

‘I know. We saw him.’

‘Should I send some men back on board to fetch weapons?’

‘No. I doubt Kolanos will want trouble in the Fat King’s bay.’

‘The Golden One should sleep on the Xanthos tonight,’ said Oniacus. ‘Kolanos may not seek an open fight, but rely instead on a dagger in the dark. Have you warned Helikaon?’

‘No need,’ said Zidantas. ‘He will have seen them. And I will keep watch against assassins. Stay alert, though, Oniacus. And warn a few of the tougher men. Keep it from the others.’

Zidantas rose and stretched, then he wandered off. Oniacus grinned at the now nervous Xander.

‘Don’t worry, little man. Zidantas knows what he’s doing.’

‘Are those men our enemies?’ asked Xander fearfully.

‘In truth they are everyone’s enemies. They live for plunder. They rob, they steal, they kill. Then they brag about their courage and their bravery and their honour. But then the Mykene are a strange race.’

‘Argurios is a Mykene – and he saved my life,’ said Xander.

‘As I said, boy, they are a strange people. But that was a brave deed. You can’t say they lack courage. Everything else, charity, compassion, pity, but not courage.’

‘Courage is important, though,’ said Xander. ‘Everyone says so.’ ‘Of course it is,’ agreed Oniacus. ‘But there are different kinds. The Mykene live for combat and the glory of war. I grieve for them. War is the enemy of civilization. We cannot grow through war, Xander. It drags us down, filling our hearts with hatred and thoughts of revenge.’ He sighed. ‘Trade is the key. Every race has something to offer, and something they need to buy. And, as we trade, we learn new skills from one another. Wait until you see Troy, then I’ll show you what I mean. Stonemasons from Egypte helped craft the great walls and the towers, and the statues at the Scaean Gate; carpenters from Phrygia and Nysia fashioned the temple to Hermes, the God of Travellers. Goldsmiths from Troy travelled to Egypte and taught other craftsmen how to create wondrous jewellery. And as the trade increased so did the exchange of knowledge. Now we can build higher walls, stronger buildings, dig deeper wells, weave brighter cloths. We can irrigate fields and grow more crops to feed the hungry. All from trade. But war? There is nothing to be said for it, boy.’

‘But war makes heroes,’ argued Xander. ‘Herakles and Ormenion were warriors, and they have been made immortal. Father Zeus turned them into stars in the night sky.’

Oniacus scowled. ‘In a drunken rage Herakles clubbed his wife to death, and Ormenion sacrificed his youngest daughter in order that Poseidon might grant fair winds for his attack on Kretos.’

‘I’m sorry, Oniacus. I didn’t mean to make you angry.’ ‘You are just young, Xander. And I am not angry with you. I hope you never see what war makes men do.

I hope that the current peace lasts all your lifetime. Because then we will see great things. All around the Great Green will be happy people, content and safe, raising families.’ Then he sighed again. ‘But not while killers like Kolanos sail the waters. Not while kings like Agamemnon rule. And certainly not while youngsters admire butchers like Herakles or Ormenion.’ He glanced back at the crowd around Helikaon. ‘I am going to have a word with a few of the lads. Don’t you say anything to anyone.’

With that Oniacus ruffled the boy’s hair again and moved off towards the Xanthos’ crew.

Xander sighed. He didn’t want to be a hero now. There were evil men on this beach, murderers who used daggers in the dark. Rising to his feet he followed Oniacus, and sat down alongside some of the crew. They were chatting and laughing. Xander looked at them. They were big men and strong, and he felt more confident in their company. Xander stretched himself out on the sand, his head resting on his arm. He fell asleep almost instantly.

ii

Had it not been for the two years she had spent on the isle of Thera, the flame-haired Andromache might have had no real understanding of just how boring life could be. She pondered this as she stood on the balcony of the pitiful royal palace overlooking the Bay of Blue Owls. She could not recall being bored as a child, playing in the gardens of her father’s fine palace in Thebe Under Plakos, or running in the pastures, in the shadows of the hills. Life then had seemed carefree.

Puberty had put paid to such simple pleasures, and she had been confined to the women’s quarters of the palace, behind high walls, under the stern gaze of elderly matrons. At first she had railed against the oppressive atmosphere, but she had succumbed, at last, to the languorous lack of pace, and the calm, almost serene, surroundings. Her three younger sisters eventually joined her there. Prettier than she, they had been dangled before prospective suitors, in order to become breeding cows for princes of neighbouring realms; items to be traded for treaties or alliances. Andromache herself, tall and forbidding, her piercing green eyes – intimidating, according to her father – extinguishing any possible fire in the heart of a would-be husband, had been presented for service of another kind. Two years ago, when she was eighteen, father had sent her to become a priestess on Thera.

It was not an act of piety. The temple required virgins of royal blood to perform the necessary rites, and kings received golden gifts for despatching daughters to serve there. Andromache had been ‘sold’ for two talents of silver.

Not as much as father had received for the two daughters married into the Hittite royal line, and considerably less than the sum promised for the youngest sister, golden-haired Paleste, upon her wedding to the Trojan hero, Hektor.

Still, father had been pleased that this plain girl with the cold green eyes had proved of some service to the kingdom. Andromache recalled well the night he had told her of her fate. He had called her into his private chambers, and they had sat together on a gilded couch. Father had been out hunting that day, and he stank of horse sweat, and there was dried blood upon his hands. Never an attractive man – even when bathed and dressed in finery – Ektion looked more like a goatherd than a king on this occasion. His clothes were travel-stained, his weak chin unshaved, his eyes red-rimmed from weariness. ‘You will travel to Thera, and train as a priestess of the Minotaur,’ said Ektion. ‘I know this task will be arduous, but you are a strong girl.’ She had sat silently, staring at the ugly man. The silence caused his temper to flare. ‘You only have yourself to blame. Many men prefer plain women. But you made no effort to please any of the suitors I found for you. Not a smile, not a word of encouragement.’

‘You found dull men,’ she said.

‘From good families.’

‘Well, father, no doubt you will grow rich anyway, selling my sisters.’

‘Now that is what I mean!’ Ektion stormed. ‘Everything sounds ugly when it comes from your mouth. Your sisters will find joy in their children and the wealth of their husbands. Little Paleste is already betrothed to Hektor. She will live in the golden city of Troy, wed to their greatest hero. He will adore her, and she will be happy.’

‘Which was, of course, your prime concern, father,’ she said, her voice gentle.

He stared hard at her. ‘What will I do on Thera?’ she asked.

‘Do? I don’t know what the women do there. Placate the angry god. Make sacrifices. Sing, for all I know! There are no men there.’ She heard the malice in that last sentence.

‘Well, that will be a blessing,’ she said. ‘I am already looking forward to it.’

It was not true, but she enjoyed the look of anger that flashed from father’s eyes.

Her heart had been heavy the day the trade ship anchored in the circular bay of Thera. A life of dull banishment was about to begin.

But Andromache could not have been more wrong. Within days her life had expanded beyond measure. She learned to shoot a bow, to ride half-wild ponies, to dance in the revels of Artemis, drunk and full of joy. In short, to express herself without fear of complaint or censure. Without the restrictions of a male-dominated society, the women of Thera revelled in their freedom. Each day there was some new entertainment, foot races or archery tournaments. There were treasure hunts and swimming competitions, and in the evenings discussions on poetry, or storytelling. Every few weeks there was a feast offering tributes to one of the many gods, where strong wine was drunk, and the women danced and sang, and made love.

The priestesses of Thera also maintained the Temple of the Horse, conducting ceremonies of sacrifice to the dread Minotaur, seeking to soothe his troubled soul. Their work was vital. Two centuries ago he had burst his chains, and hot lava had spewed from the earth. The top of the mountain exploded, and Apollo, god of the sun, was so distressed that the world remained dark for three days.

Poseidon also, in his anger at the Kretans, who were charged with appeasing the Minotaur, sent a tidal wave across the Great Green, destroying the olive orchards and the wine harvests of Kretos, laying salt upon the earth to prevent any new growth. At the time Kretos was a great power, but the Kretans were humbled by this savage display of godly rage.

Now two hundred priestesses kept the Minotaur subdued – though he still occasionally wrenched at his chains, causing the earth to tremble. On one occasion the western wall of the long dining room had split, shattering the mural upon it.

Despite these occasional crises Andromache enjoyed her two years of freedom.

Then, one day in midsummer came dreadful news. Her sister Paleste – the sweetest of girls, with a smile to melt the coldest heart – had caught a chill, which turned into a fever. She had died within days of falling ill. Andromache could scarcely believe it. Of all the sisters Paleste had been the strongest and most vibrant. She had been pledged to wed the Trojan prince, Hektor, in the autumn, to secure an alliance between Thebe and Troy. Graciously – father wrote – the Trojan king, Priam, had agreed that Andromache could replace Paleste and marry Hektor.

Thus, at twenty, and set for a life without men, Andromache had been forced to leave Thera, and her beloved companions, and journey to Troy to wed a man she had never seen.

No more would she ride bareback over the Theran hills, or dance and sing in the Dionysian revels. No more would she draw bow to cheek and watch the shaft fly straight and true, or swim naked in the midnight seas around the bay. No more would she feel Kalliope’s passionate embrace, or taste the wine upon her lover’s lips.

Andromache felt anger rise, and welcomed it, for it briefly extinguished the boredom. In Troy she would become a breeding cow, and lie on a wide bed, legs spread to receive the seed of a grunting, sweaty man. She would swell like a pig, then scream as the infant clawed its way out of her. And why? So that her father’s greed could be satisfied.

No, she thought, not just his greed. In this violent and uncertain world a nation needed allies. The Egypteian pharaohs constantly waged war on the Hittite peoples, and the Mykene raided wherever they perceived weakness. Her father was greedy, but without treaties and alliances his lands would be devoured by one of the great powers. Little Thebe Under Plakos would be safer under the protection of Troy and its fabled cavalry.

She gazed down on the beach, seeing the fires lit, and hearing the faint swell of music on the dusk breeze. Down there was a freedom she would never again experience. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, laughing, joking, loving.

A thought came. Delicious and tempting. Soon the ship would arrive to take her to Troy. Until then she was – if matters were handled with care – still free.

Moving across the small apartment she took her hooded cloak of dark green wool and swung it round her shoulders. It complemented her gold-embroidered, olive-green gown. Tying her red hair back from her face with a strip of leather she walked from her room and along the silent corridor beyond, then slipped down an outside stairwell to a walled garden. There was a guard at the gate. He bowed when he saw her, pulling the gate open as she passed.

There was a breeze blowing over the cliffs as Andromache made her way to the main gate, and the steep road leading to the beach. Two more guards saw her.

They did not know her, and neglected to bow, merely standing aside as she walked out onto the road.

How easy it was, she thought. But then who would have imagined that a king’s daughter, and a priestess of Thera, would have any desire to leave the safety of the palace and walk among the hard and violent men of the sea.

It was a sobering thought. There was no bodyguard to protect her, and she carried no weapon. The thought of danger did not make her pause. Instead it quickened her heart.

The music grew louder as she approached, and she saw men and women dancing together drunkenly. Off to one side people were fornicating. She gazed down at the closest couple. The man’s buttocks were pounding up and down, and she could see the thick shaft of his penis spearing into the girl he was riding.

Andromache looked at her. Their eyes met. The girl grinned and raised her eyebrows. Then she winked at Andromache, who smiled back at her and walked on.

Moving through the packed stalls she saw that they were mostly covered with cheap and ill-made items. A man approached her, lifting his tunic and waggling his manhood at her. ‘How much for a ride, girl?’ he asked. Andromache stared hard at the stiffening penis, then transferred her green gaze to the man.

‘The last time I saw something that small it was crawling out of an apple,’ she said. Peals of laughter came from two women close by.

‘It’s getting even smaller now!’ one of them called.

Andromache walked on, easing her way through the throng. Some distance away a crowd was gathering round a man standing on an empty stall. Great cheers went up as he raised his arms.

‘Want to hear a true story?’ he bellowed.

‘No, we want to hear one of yours,’ yelled someone in the crowd. The man’s laughter boomed out.

‘Then I’ll tell you of a dread monster, with only one eye. Tall as ten men, and teeth sharp and long as swords.’

And the crowd fell silent.

iii

Helikaon always enjoyed the performances Odysseus gave. He did not just recount tall tales, but acted them too. As now, with four men lifting the wooden stall, heaving it back and forth to represent a tilting deck. Balanced upon it, Odysseus roared out a tale of a mighty storm that carried the Penelope to an enchanted isle. In the background some of the Penelope’s crew banged drums to imitate thunder, while others whistled shrilly at intervals. Helikaon had not heard this story before, and settled back to enjoy the surprises. Odysseus suddenly leapt from the stall. ‘And we were upon a strange beach,’ he said, ‘and just beyond it the tallest trees I ever saw, twisted and gnarled. Just when we thought we were safe there came a terrifying voice.’

From the back of the crowd six of the Penelope’s crew all cried out in unison: ‘I smell blood!’ A flicker of enjoyable panic swept through the throng. The timing had been perfect.

‘Twas a massive creature, with a single eye in the centre of its head. Its teeth were long and sharp. It ran from the trees and caught one of my men by the waist, hauling him high. Then those terrible teeth ripped him apart.’

At that moment Helikaon saw several of Kolanos’ crew working their way through the throng, moving ever closer to him. His eyes scanned the crowd, and he picked out Zidantas, Oniacus and several of the Xanthos’ men, also manoeuvring their way towards him, while keeping wary eyes on the Mykene.

Odysseus was in full voice now, recounting the adventure with the Cyclops. Sweat gleamed on his face, and dripped from his beard. The audience was entranced, the performance – as always – boisterous, energetic and captivating.

Helikaon looked around. None of the Fat King’s soldiers were close by. The Mykene were apparently unarmed, but one of them was wearing a jerkin of leather, which could conceal a knife. The chances were the Mykene would do nothing. The Fat King was merciless with any who broke his laws. Much of his wealth came from the ships that beached upon his bays, and the main reason they chose to stay was the reciprocal guarantee of safety for their crews and cargoes.

Even so it made sense to be cautious. Helikaon eased his way back into the audience, then cut to the left, seeking to circle the crowd and link with Zidantas.

Then he saw the woman.

She was standing just back from the gathering, dressed in a long cloak of green and an embroidered gown. It was difficult by fire and moonlight to see the colour of her hair, but it was long, thickly curled, and drawn back from her face. And such a face! She looked like a goddess. Not pretty, but awesomely beautiful. Helikaon’s mouth was dry. He could not stop looking at her. She saw him, and he felt the power of her eyes. The look was cool, and yet strangely challenging. He swallowed hard, and stepped towards her. In that moment her expression changed, her eyes flickering beyond him. Helikaon spun. The man with the leather jerkin was behind him, a knife in his hand. The assassin darted forward. Swaying aside from the thrusting blade, Helikaon grabbed the attacker’s wrist, pulling him away from the crowd, then stepped in and smashed a head butt to the man’s nose. Stunned, blood pouring from his nostrils, the assassin fell back. Helikaon followed in, butting him again. The assassin’s knees gave way and he dropped to the sand, the knife slipping from his fingers. Helikaon swept it up, plunging the sharp blade into the man’s throat, then ripping it clear. Blood spurted through the air.

With Odysseus’ tale still captivating the audience, no-one in the crowd had seen the brief exchange. The body lay, blood gushing at first, then pumping more slowly as the man died. Rising to his feet Helikaon looked around for further attackers, but it was Zidantas who emerged from the crowd.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, looking crestfallen. ‘I should have been by your side.

They played it neatly, though. We were watching the wrong men.’

Helikaon stood silently, looking down at the dead man. The man was young, his hair curly and dark. Somewhere there would be a wife, or a lover, and parents who had nurtured him. He had played games with other children, and had dreamed of a future bright with promise. Now he lay here on the sand, his life ended.

Helikaon’s thoughts were bleak.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Zidantas.

Helikaon turned back to where the woman had been standing. But she was gone. He shivered. Then the familiar post-battle head pain began, a throbbing ache emanating from the back of his neck and spreading up over the crown of his head.

He realized Ox was looking at him, an expression of concern on his face.

‘I am fine, Ox.’

Zidantas looked unconvinced. Oniacus pushed through the crowd to join them.

‘The Mykene have returned to their galleys,’ he said. Then he saw the dead man and swore. ‘I am sorry, lord, I should have been here. They fooled us by—’

‘I have already explained,’ snapped Zidantas. ‘Still, no harm done. One less Mykene in the world. All in all a good night.’

Thunderous cheering broke out as Odysseus finished his tale. Oniacus swore. ‘I missed the ending,’ he complained.

‘So did he,’ said Helikaon, pointing to the corpse. ‘Let us move away.’ Tossing the dagger alongside the body he walked back to the Xanthos campfire. Behind them someone shouted, and a crowd gathered round the corpse. Helikaon picked up a water jug and drank deeply. Then he poured water over his hands, washing the blood clear. In the firelight he saw that more blood had spattered over his tunic.

Odysseus wandered over to the fire. He was carrying a linen cloth, and wiping sweat from his face. He slumped down alongside Helikaon.

‘I am getting too old for these athletic performances,’ he said. ‘I need to have a strong word with those sheepshaggers who held the stall. Damned if they weren’t trying to toss me onto the beach.’

He did look tired. Helikaon threw his arm round the older man’s shoulder. ‘There will be gloom over the whole world if you ever stop telling your tales.’

‘Aye, it was a good audience tonight. I used to tell that story with two Cyclops. Strange how one works better. More… more terrifying, and yet, somehow, pathetic’ He leaned in close to Helikaon. ‘I take it the dead man was one of Kolanos’ crew?’

‘Yes.’

‘Never liked Kolanos. Was at a feast with him one time. Never heard him fart at all. Can’t trust a man who doesn’t fart at a feast.’ Helikaon laughed aloud.

‘Don’t treat him lightly, though, lad,’ Odysseus continued. ‘He is a man of great malice. Back in Mykene he is known as the Breaker of Spirits.’

‘I will be wary, my friend. Tell me, while you were performing did you happen to see a tall woman in a green cloak? Looked like a goddess?’

‘As a matter of fact, I did. Standing off to my right. Why? Did she rob you?’

‘I think she did. She stole my wits.’

Odysseus leaned forward, took the water jug and drank deeply. Then he laid it down and belched loudly. ‘Men should always be careful when choosing women. Or we should follow the Gypptos and have a score or two. Then one or two bad ones could pass unnoticed.’

‘I think Penelope would be interested to hear you voice that opinion.’

Odysseus chuckled. ‘Aye, she would. She’d cuff me round the head. But then I was lucky, lad. There is no woman on this green earth better than my Penelope. I couldn’t imagine sharing my life with anyone else. You might find that with Kreusa.’

Helikaon looked at his friend. ‘Not you too? Is there no-one who hasn’t heard about Priam’s matchmaking?’

‘I heard you refused her. And that Priam is none too happy with you, lad.’

‘His unhappiness concerns me not at all. And as for Kreusa .. . I recall you struggling to find something pleasant to say about her. What was it in the end?

Ah yes. “She has a nice speaking voice.” ‘

‘Well, she does,’ said Odysseus, with a wide smile. ‘She is also wonderful to look upon. Dazzling, in fact. And she’s not weak. However, I take your point.

Not a woman I’d risk a storm to sail home to. Ah well, you should marry her, then build yourself a few more palaces around the Great Green, and set convivial wives in each of them. Gyppto women are said to be the best. You could build a great palace. Labour is cheap. You buy slaves by the hundred, I’m told.’

Helikaon shook his head. ‘I want no more palaces, Odysseus.’ He rubbed at his eyes as the headache worsened.

‘A shame Phaedra wasn’t a king’s daughter,’ continued Odysseus. ‘Now there’s a woman to gladden any man’s heart.’

‘She has many virtues.’

‘But you are not in love with her?’

Helikaon shrugged. ‘I am not truly sure what that means, my friend. How does one tell?’

Odysseus draped the towel over his shoulders and stretched his back. ‘You remember practising with wooden swords? All the moves, the blocks, the counters, getting your footwork right, learning how to be in balance always?’

‘Of course. You were a hard master.’

‘And you recall the first time you went into a real fight, with blood being shed and the fear of death in the air?’

‘I do.’

‘The moves are the same, but the difference is wider than the Great Green. Love is like that, Helikaon. You can spend time with a whore, and laugh and know great pleasure. But when love strikes – ah, the difference is awesome. You will find more joy in the touch of a hand, or the sight of a smile, than you could ever experience in a hundred nights of passion with anyone else. The sky will be more blue, the sun more bright. Ah, I am missing my Penelope tonight.’

‘The season is almost over, and you’ll be home for the winter.’

‘Aye, I am looking forward to that.’ Lifting a water jug Odysseus drank deeply.

‘Diomedes asked to be remembered to you,’ said Helikaon. ‘He is hoping you will let him sail with you when he is older.’

Odysseus chuckled. ‘He’s a fine, brave little lad. How old is he now?’

‘Twelve soon – and not so little. He will be a fine king one day, if the gods will it. I feared he might be like my father, cold and unfeeling. Thankfully he has his mother’s spirit.’

‘You surprised me that day, Helikaon,’ said Odysseus. ‘But it was a good surprise, and one that did you credit.’

Before Helikaon could respond several soldiers in conical helmets and bronze breastplates approached the fire. The first bowed low. ‘My lord Helikaon, the king requests you to join him.’

Helikaon rose. ‘Tell him it is an honour to be invited. I will be there as soon as I have returned to my ship and donned garments suitable for a king’s palace.’

The soldiers bowed again, and departed. Odysseus pushed himself to his feet.

‘Take Argurios and his companion with you,’ he said. ‘I am sure they would wish to meet the king.’

‘I do not feel like the company of Mykene, Odysseus.’

‘Then do it for your old mentor.’

Helikaon sighed. ‘For you I would walk into Hades. Very well. I shall spend the evening being bored by them. But do something for me, would you?’ ‘Of course, lad.’

‘See if you can find that goddess. I would like to meet her.’

‘She’s probably a Lykian whore who’ll give you the pox.’

‘Find her anyway. I should be back before dawn.’

‘Good. I shall enjoy standing in line to speak to her as she ruts with my sailors.’

i

Odysseus watched Helikaon walk back to the Xanthos. The giant Zidantas went with him, keeping a wary eye out for more Mykene assassins. Helikaon grasped a trailing rope and drew himself up onto the ship. There will be more violence tonight, Odysseus thought.

The idea that Helikaon might be killed caused him to shiver. He had come to love the boy during his two years on the Penelope. The first few weeks had been difficult. Odysseus had no moral qualms about killing for profit. He had, in his time, been a raider and a plunderer. But the thought of murdering the young i prince was abhorrent to him. Instead he had watched the boy with an increasingly paternal eye, revelling in the lad’s new-found freedom, and feeling pride as the youngster steadily overcame his fears. Day by day he had stared them down.

Climbing the mast in high winds to help draw up the sail, his face grey, his terror palpable; standing defiantly, sword in hand, as the pirate ship closed and the raiders leapt over the side, screaming their battle cries. Then hurling himself into the fray when every instinct screamed at him to run below and hide.

Most of all, though, it was the rowing that won the hearts of the crew. The skin of Helikaon’s hands was soft, and whenever he took his turn at the oars his palms would bleed. He never complained, merely bound the torn flesh and rowed on. Odysseus had convinced himself that the boy’s father would put aside all thoughts of murder, once he saw the fine young man he was becoming.

Until the day the assassin Karpophorus took passage on the Penelope.

Now there were more assassins waiting. Odysseus gazed again at the high cliff road. Should he have been more direct with his warning? Should he have mentioned the blood price Agamemnon had placed on Helikaon’s head?

The answer was no. Odysseus was a man without enemies, and that was rare in these harsh and bloody times. He never openly took sides, remaining neutral, and therefore welcome in any port. It was not always easy. When Alektruon had told him he was hunting down the Golden One, Odysseus had been sorely tempted to send a warning. Yet he had not. Happily it had all turned out well. Alektruon was dead, which was no loss to the world, and Odysseus had won a splendid blue cloak at his funeral games, outshooting Meriones with the bow. But now Helikaon dead was worth twice a man’s weight in gold. There were kings who would sell him out for less than that.

After a while he saw Helikaon climbing down from the great ship. He was wearing a dark blue knee-length tunic, and a short sword was scabbarded at his waist.

Zidantas was carrying an enormous club. Odysseus smiled. Ah, he understood then, he thought, with relief. Helikaon and Zidantas moved off towards where Argurios and Glaukos were sitting by the Xanthos fire. Odysseus watched as the two Mykene rose and accompanied Helikaon. Both were wearing their armour, swords sheathed at their sides.

A young man, with long golden hair, moved across Odysseus’ line of vision. A pretty woman was holding his hand and smiling up at him. Suddenly he swept his arm round the girl’s waist and drew her to him. She laughed and tilted her head back, accepting his kiss. Odysseus smiled.

As a child he had dreamed of being handsome and graceful like that boy, with the kind of looks men envied and women grew giddy to gaze upon. Instead he was stout and stocky, with too much body hair. It now grew in reddish tufts even on his shoulders.

No, the gods, in their infinite wisdom, had decided Odysseus would be ugly.

There must have been great planning involved in the scheme, he decided, for they had accomplished their task with genius. His arms were too long, his hands too gnarled, his legs as bandy as a Thessalian pony rider’s. Even his teeth were crooked. And Penelope had laughingly pointed out once that one of his ears was bigger than the other. Having created such a mismatch, at least one of the gods had taken pity on him. For he had been blessed with a gift for storytelling. He could spin a tale of dazzling complexity, and read an audience as well as, if not better than, he could perceive the subtle shifting of the trade winds.

Wherever he beached his ship crowds would gather, and sit around waiting for the moment when he deigned to perform. Sometimes he would tell them he was tired, or claim that they knew all his tales now anyway. Then they would clamour and beg.

At last he would sigh, and the performance would begin.

There was a magic to the stories. Odysseus was aware of it, though why the enchantment worked was beyond his understanding. They were fictions, and yet they led to truths. His second in command, Bias, had strutted like a peacock after Odysseus told a crowd that he had hurled the javelin that broke the wing of a demon pursuing their ship. After that Bias spent much of his spare time on land practising with the javelin. He became so proficient that he won a slave woman in the funeral games held for Alektruon.

Last summer, when the Penelope had been attacked by pirates, the crew had fought like heroes in an effort to live up to the stories Odysseus told of them. After the victory they had gathered round him, bragging of their courage, and anxious that he should include this latest adventure in his next performance.

But the magic of what Odysseus called the ‘golden lie’ had worked best with Helikaon. He had joined the Penelope’s crew as a frightened youth. The men, however, reacted to him as the young hero who had dived from a cliff to rescue their leader. They loved him and expected great deeds from him. He in turn supplied those deeds, living up to their expectations. The great fiction became the great truth. The lie of courage became the reality of heroism. Helikaon, the ship’s mascot, became Helikaon the adventurer. The frightened boy became the fearless man.

Odysseus lay back on the sand, staring up at the stars. The gifts he received for storytelling had begun to exceed the amount he earned from trading on the Great Green. Last year, at the court of Agamemnon, in the Lion’s Hall, he had spun a great epic tale of a mysterious island, ruled by a Witch Queen who turned his men into pigs. He had made that story last throughout a full evening, and not one listener had left the hall. Afterwards Agamemnon gave him two golden cups, inset with emeralds and rubies. The same night Agamemnon had stabbed to death a drunken Mykene nobleman who doubted him.

How curious, he thought, that a man who told huge lies would be paid in gold and gems while another who offered the truth would receive a dagger through his eye.

After a performance he was always unable to sleep, despite the heavy weariness that sat upon him like a bear. He rolled to his side, then sat up. Eventually he walked down to the water’s edge, and squatted down to sculpt a face in the wet sand. As always he tried to capture the beauty of his wife, Penelope. As always he failed. He used the flat of his dagger to mould the features, the long, straight nose and the full lips, then the point of the blade to create the impression of hair. Suddenly a long black worm pushed up through the sculpture.

Odysseus leapt back. The lugworm slithered across the face in the sand, then burrowed deep once more.

Odysseus laughed at himself for being so startled by a harmless sea worm.

Then a story began to form in his mind. A woman with snakes for hair, living on a secret isle, shrouded in mist. The Penelope would have stopped at the isle, seeking fresh water. One of the crew would go missing. The others would hunt for him. They would find only his bones… No! I’ve done that too often, he thought. They would discover… He had been turned into a statue. He had gazed upon the face of the snake-haired woman and his flesh had become stone. Odysseus smiled. He glanced up the steep mountain trail. ‘Be lucky, boy!’ he whispered.

ii

When the fight began Andromache had turned swiftly from the violence and walked away through the deserted stalls. Once hidden she had glanced back to see one man dead, the other standing over him, a bloody knife in his hand. She was shocked, though not as shocked as she might have been had she not seen men die before. Father had a habit of killing criminals personally, having them dragged into the royal courtyard and forced to kneel before him. Then he would try out the various weapons in his armoury. The axe was a favourite. Father bragged he could hew the head from a man in a single stroke. He never had while Andromache was forced to watch. Usually two blows were necessary. As a child she had wondered why the victims never struggled when they were brought forward. Some begged, others wept, but she could recall no-one who sought to run.

At least what she had just witnessed here tonight had been a fight. An assassin had tried to commit murder, and had died. Andromache shivered. At first the man with the long dark hair had seemed more of a poet or a bard than a warrior. She could still picture his eyes. They were bright blue and beautiful. Yet he had proved to be as savage as any Mykene reaver, making no attempt to subdue his attacker, merely ripping his life away. But those eyes…

Think of something else, you stupid girl, she chided herself.

She wandered among the stalls. A mangy dog growled at her. Andromache snapped her fingers at it, and it ran away for a few steps, then stared back malevolently. She cut to the right, heading down through the rocks to sit by the sea’s edge. Removing her sandals, she dipped her feet into the water, then stared out over the dark sea. Loneliness closed in on her, and she longed to be able to climb aboard a ship and say to the master: ‘Take me to Thera. Take me home.’

Had she been marrying anyone but Hektor she would have been welcomed back to the temple with open arms. They would have applauded her courage, and made jokes about the stupidity of men. However, Hektor was the son of Hekabe, queen of Troy, the single largest benefactor of the Temple of the Horse. Under no circumstances would the sisterhood do anything to cause offence to such a great power. No, they would greet Andromache warmly, then place her on the next ship for the eastern mainland, probably under guard. She thought then of Kalliope, picturing her not at their tearful farewell, but at the Feast of Demeter the previous autumn. She had danced under the stars, her naked body glistening in the firelight. Tall and strong and fearless. She would not suffer them to send Andromache to a loveless marriage.

Which was another reason Andromache could not go back. Of all the women on Thera Kalliope was the most content there. Her loathing of men meant the island was the one place in all the world where she could be at peace; where her laughter could ring out and her soul soar free. Andromache’s return, and the consequent turmoil, could lead to Kalliope’s expulsion from Thera.

A cool wind blew over the sea, and Andromache gathered her cloak about her. Time drifted by. She knew she should return to Kygones’, the Fat King’s, palace, but she was loth to forsake the freedom the beach offered.

‘You do not belong here,’ said a man’s voice. She glanced round, an angry retort on her lips. Then she saw it was the storyteller. In the moonlight his ugliness seemed almost otherworldly. She could imagine Dionysian horns sprouting from his head.

‘Where do I belong?’ she countered.

‘Why, in one of my tales, of course. My friend was right. You do look like a goddess. You’re not, are you?’ He sat down on a nearby rock. The moon was full now, and she saw that his face, while ugly, had a boyish charm. ‘I am Odysseus,’

he said. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

‘Yes, I am a goddess,’ she told him. ‘I’ll leave you to guess which one.’

‘Artemis the Huntress.’

‘Not Aphrodite then? How disappointing.’

‘I don’t know much about how the gods really look,’ he admitted, ‘but I think the Goddess of Love would have bigger tits. And her eyes would be warm and beguiling. No, I think Artemis suits you. Tell me you can shoot a bow.’

Andromache laughed. ‘I can shoot a bow.’

‘I knew it! One of those flimsy Egypteian pieces, or a real Phrygian bow, of horn and wood and leather?’

Andromache smiled. ‘On Thera we had both, and, yes, I preferred the Phrygian.’

‘I have a bow no-one else can string,’ he told her. ‘It makes me laugh to see strong men grow red in the face trying. It is a powerful weapon. I once shot an arrow into the moon. It had a rope attached and I used it to draw my ship from the beach.’

‘That was a long rope,’ she observed.

Odysseus laughed. ‘I like you, lass. Where are you really from, and what are you doing here, walking among whores and sailors?’

‘How do you know I am not a whore?’

‘If you were a whore you still wouldn’t be here, for there’s not a man could afford you. Well, save Helikaon perhaps. So what are you?’

‘How would you define a whore?’ she countered.

‘Ah, a game. I love to play games. Very well… what is a whore? A woman gifted with the talent to make a hard man soft; a priestess of Aphrodite, the delight of sailors who miss their wives and their homes.’

‘It is not a game,’ said Andromache sharply. ‘A whore is a woman who offers her body to a man she doesn’t love for copper, trinkets or gifts. Not so?’

‘I prefer my version, but then I am romantically inclined. However, yes, both definitions are sound,’ he agreed.

‘Then I am a whore, for my body is being offered to a man I do not love for riches and security,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ cried Odysseus. ‘You should have asked what is the difference between a king’s daughter and a whore. I would have answered: “The price.” So who is the lucky fellow?’

Andromache stared into his ugly face and considered telling him to be on his way. Yet there was something comfortable about his company, and she felt at ease with him. ‘Hektor of Troy,’ she said at last, and saw his eyes widen.

‘You could do worse. A good man is Hektor.’

‘By which you mean he drinks wine until he falls over, belches at table, and rushes off to fight wars and gain glory. May the gods save us all from good men.

Are you married, Odysseus?’

‘I am indeed. I am also the most fortunate man on the Great Green, for my wife is Penelope. And she loves me.’ He chuckled. ‘Whenever I say that I am filled with wonder. I find it incomprehensible that she should.’

‘Then you are, as you say, fortunate. But then I expect sailors only marry for love. It makes them far richer than kings.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose it does. I should point out, though, that I am a king.’

‘Who shoots arrows into the moon?’ she said, smiling.

‘I know I don’t look like a king, but I truly am. My kingdom is the isle of Ithaka, and Penelope is my queen. And before you ask, no, we did not marry for love. My father arranged the match. We only met on our wedding day.’

‘And you fell in love the moment your eyes met, I suppose?’

‘No. I think she loathed me on sight. Not hard to see why. The first few months were… shall we say scratchy? Then I fell ill with a fever. Almost died. She nursed me. Said I talked in my delirium. She never told me what I said, but somehow, after that, things were different. We started to laugh together, then take long walks along the cliffs. One day…’ he shrugged. ‘One day we just realized we loved one another.’

Andromache gazed at the ugly man, seeing him anew. There was a touching honesty behind the tall tales, and a charm that slipped almost unnoticed past her defences. ‘You saw the attack on Helikaon?’ he said suddenly.

For a moment she did not know what he meant, then remembered the knifeman rushing forward. ‘The fight, yes. Helikaon is the man with the long black hair?’

‘He is a close friend of Hektor. He could tell you far more about him than I could.’

‘Why did the assassin want him dead?’

Odysseus shrugged. ‘Too pleasant a night to spend telling boring stories about traders and pirates and old grudges. Ask me something else.’

‘Was Helikaon the friend who said I looked like a goddess?’

‘Yes. Never seen him so smitten. Having met you, of course, I can understand it.’

She leaned towards him. ‘Let us not play this game any longer, Odysseus. I know what I am. Tall and plain, and a breeding cow for a Trojan prince. I need no false flattery.’

‘And I offer none. You are not pretty, it is true. But, for what my opinion is worth, I agree with Helikaon. You are beautiful.’

‘He said that?’

‘He said you were a goddess. I am just adding a little colour to the mural.’ She noticed he kept glancing back up towards the cliff path.

‘Am I boring you, king of Ithaka?’

He chuckled and looked embarrassed. ‘No, not at all. It is just … I am waiting for Helikaon to return.’

‘You think there will be another attempt on his life?’

‘Oh, almost certainly.’ She saw him take a deep breath, and then relax.

Following his gaze she looked up to see a group of men carrying a body down the path. ‘They didn’t succeed, though,’ he said happily.

‘Is he your son… or your lover?’ she asked.

‘My son died,’ he said. ‘And, no, Helikaon is not my lover. My tastes have never strayed in that direction. Which, when I was young, annoyed me. I felt I was missing something vital that all my friends enjoyed. No, I think of Helikaon almost as a son. Or perhaps as a younger version of the man I would like to have been. If that makes any sense.’

‘You would like to have been handsome?’

‘Indeed! Like a young god!’

‘And would Penelope have loved you any more?’

He sighed. ‘You are a shrewd woman. Will you tell me your name?’

‘Andromache of Thebe.’

‘Ah! I know your father, Ektion. Can’t say that I like him much.’

Andromache’s laughter pealed out. ‘No-one likes father. There is nothing in his life of worth – except that which can be traded for silver.’

‘You’ll meet a lot of men like him. Your new father, King Priam, is such a man.

Don’t you find it odd that such men can sire wonderful children? Hektor is generous and brave. Young Paris is gentle and studious. Even strange little Kassandra has no meanness of spirit. And your father sired you, Andromache, and I see in you a great soul.’

‘Perhaps you mistake intelligence for spirituality, Odysseus.’

‘No, lass, I don’t make mistakes about people. I have two gifts that have served me well. I can spin a yarn, and I can read the hearts of men and women. You are like my Penelope. You are, as you say, intelligent. You are also warm and open and honest. And you have courage and a sense of duty. My father once said that if a man was lucky he’d find a woman to ride the storm with. You are such a woman. Hektor is very lucky.’

‘His luck is not my concern,’ she said. ‘What of mine?’

‘Let us find out,’ he said, rising to his feet.

‘And how will we do this?’

‘We’ll seek out Aklides. Best soothsayer in Lykia. Well . .. when he’s not drunk or drugged. He’s from the desert country beyond Palestine. Lot of soothsayers come from the desert. He’ll read your future.’

‘Yes, and tell me I’ll have nine children and be rich and happy and live long.’

‘Are you frightened of a soothsayer, Andromache of Thebe?’ he chided.

‘I am frightened of nothing, Odysseus of Ithaka.’

‘Then come with me.’ He held out his hand, and she allowed him to draw her to her feet. Together they walked through the stalls and along the beach, past fornicating couples and drunken sailors, past campfires around which men were singing lusty songs. At last they reached a small tent below the cliffs. There was a long queue. Odysseus suggested they wait a little while longer, and perhaps find something to eat. Andromache had no wish to return to the palace just yet, and so agreed. They moved to a series of food stalls, Odysseus piling a prodigious amount of meat and bread onto a wooden plate. Andromache chose a small pie, filled with honey-soaked fruit, and together they returned to sit on a small wall near the water’s edge.

They chatted then. Andromache talked of Thera, and the Temple of the Horse, though she did not mention Kalliope, or any of her friends there. Instead she explained to him the rituals that were said to keep the Sleeping God calm.

Odysseus was as good a listener as he was a storyteller, prompting her with questions that showed his interest. ‘I was on Thera once,’ he said, ‘long before it was decided that only women could placate the Minotaur. Strange place. All that rumbling below the ground, and the hissing of acrid steam from vents in the rock. I was glad to be back on the Penelope. Tell me, do you believe in the Minotaur?’

‘An odd question from a man who has seen so many monsters and demons.’

‘That would be my point, lass. I have never seen a single one. But in my travels I have seen hot springs, and lava pools. Not one of them boasted a minotaur.

Have you ever glimpsed it?’

‘No-one sees it,’ said Andromache, ‘but you can hear it rumbling and growling below the ground, pushing up, trying to escape. The older priestesses swear the island was smaller years ago, and that the straining beast is lifting it out of the sea.’

‘So, you do believe in it?’

‘Truly I do not know. But something makes that noise, and causes the ground to tremble.’

‘And you placate it with what?’

‘Songs to calm its troubled heart, offerings of wine. Prayers to the great gods to keep it calm. It is said the Kretans used to sacrifice virgins to it in the old days, forcing them to enter the deeper cracks in the rock and walk down to its lair. They did not appease him, for the Minotaur almost broke free many years ago.’

‘My grandfather told me of it,’ said Odysseus. ‘How the sun fled for many days.

And how rocks and ash fell from the sky, covering many of the eastern islands.

There is an old sailors’ legend about the sea rising up to the sky, and the sound of an army of thunders. Like to have seen it. Great story in that. Did you know that your new mother spent three years on Thera, and that part of her bridal dowry was a massive donation to build the Temple of the Horse?’

‘Yes. They speak of Hekabe with great reverence there.’

‘Strong woman. Intelligent like you. Beautiful as a winter morning and terrifying as a tempest. I think you’ll like her.’

‘You sound a little in awe of her, king of Ithaka,’ said Andromache, with a smile.

He leaned forward and gave a conspiratorial grin. ‘She has always frightened me.

Don’t know why. I think she even frightens Priam.’

The sky began to pale. The night was almost over and Andromache could hardly believe she had spent hours in the company of a stranger. She yawned and rubbed at her tired eyes.

‘I think you are getting a little weary of waiting,’ said the ugly king, pushing himself to his feet and walking back to the now shrinking queue. Approaching the men in the line he said: ‘Now, lads, I have a beautiful woman with me who needs her fortune told. Would any object if we stole in next?’

Andromache saw the men turn to stare at her. Then Odysseus dipped his hand into the pouch by his side, and produced copper rings which he dropped into their outstretched palms.

After a short while a man came out of the tent. He did not look happy. Odysseus beckoned Andromache and stepped forward, lifting the tent flap and ducking inside. Andromache followed him. Inside the tent a middle-aged man was sitting on a threadbare blanket. Two lamps were burning, and the air was stiflingly hot and acrid. Andromache sat down and looked at the seer. His right eye was like an opal, pale and milky, his left so dark it seemed to have no pupil. The man’s face was strangely elongated and thin, as if his head had been somehow crushed.

‘And what have you brought me this time, Odysseus?’ he asked, his voice low and deep.

‘A young woman who wishes to know her future.’

Aklides sighed deeply. ‘I am tired. Dawn is approaching and I have no time to count babies and offer platitudes to maidens.’

‘Then do it for your old friend,’ said Odysseus, opening his pouch once more, and this time producing a ring of bright silver.

‘I have no friends,’ muttered Aklides. His one good eye fixed on Andromache.

‘Well, give me your hand and let us see what there is to see,’ he said.

Andromache leaned forward, placing her slender fingers in his greasy palm. His hand was hot and she flinched as his fingers closed around her own. He closed his eyes and sat silently, his breathing shallow. Then he jumped, and a low groan rattled from his throat. His face spasmed, and he jerked his hand back, his eyes flaring open.

‘Well?’ asked Odysseus, as the silence lengthened.

‘Sometimes it is best not to know the future,’ whispered Aklides.

‘Come, come, Aklides! This is not like you,’ said Odysseus, an edge of anger in his voice.

‘Very well. You will have one child. A boy.’ Aklides sighed. ‘I will volunteer nothing. But ask me what you will.’

‘Will I know love?’ asked Andromache, her voice betraying her boredom.

‘There will be three loves. One like the Great Green, powerful and tempestuous, one like the Oak, strong and true, and one like the Moon, eternal and bright.’

‘I like the sound of tempestuous,’ she said, her tone sarcastic. ‘Who should I look for?’

‘The man with one sandal.’

‘And the Oak?’

He gave a thin smile. ‘He will rise from the mud, his body caked with the filth of pigs.’

‘I shall look forward to that with great anticipation. And the Moon?’

‘He will come to you with blood and pain.’

‘What nonsense,’ snapped Andromache. ‘Take back your silver, Odysseus.’

‘I speak only the truth, priestess of Thera,’ said Aklides. ‘I was content tonight, but now your visit means I shall never be content again. Through you I have seen the fall of worlds, the deaths of heroes, and I have watched the ocean touch the fire-red sky. Now leave me be!’

Andromache stepped out into the night. The stocky figure of Odysseus joined her.

‘He is usually more entertaining than that,’ he said.

Ahead on the sand she saw one of the Fat King’s sentries making his rounds, his wooden club on his shoulder, his conical, bronze-edged helmet and cheek guards gleaming in the moonlight. Suddenly he stumbled, as the strap on one of his sandals broke. Angrily he kicked it off, then strode on.

‘Such a pity,’ said Andromache drily. ‘There he is, the tempestuous love of my life, and we never met.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Should I call out to him, do you think?’ She swung towards Odysseus. ‘I thank you for your company, king of Ithaka. You are a fine friend on a starry night. But now I must return to the palace.’

‘I would be happy to walk you there,’ he said.

‘No, you wouldn’t. Save the lies for an audience, Odysseus. Let us have a pact, you and I. The truth always.’

‘That will be hard. The truth is often so boring.’ He grinned then, and spread his hands. ‘But I cannot refuse a goddess, so I will agree.’

‘You want to walk me back to the palace?’

‘No, lass, I am dog tired now and just want to wrap myself in a blanket by a fire.’

‘That is better, and how it should be between friends. So goodnight to you, Tale Spinner.’ With that she looked up at the distant fortress, and, heavy of heart, set off for the cliff path.

i

As he walked slowly up the hill road towards the fortress town Helikaon could not stop thinking about the tall woman he had seen while Odysseus performed. The way she stood – elegance and confidence sublimely in harmony; the way her eyes met his, defiant and challenging. Even her expression as she saw the man attack him had not shown fear. Her eyes had narrowed, her face becoming stern. Helikaon’s heart beat faster as he conjured her face in his mind. Beside him Zidantas trudged on in silence, his huge, nail-studded club resting on his shoulder. Argurios and Glaukos were a little way back.

The walk was perilous at night, despite the many lamps lit, and left in crevices in the rock wall. The drop was sheer to the left, the path rocky and pitted.

Helikaon gazed out over the bay below, his heart swelling as he looked down upon the sleek lines of the Xanthos. From here he could also see the distant, now tiny form of Odysseus. His mentor had walked to the water’s edge and was digging away at the sand with his dagger. Helikaon knew what he was doing. He had seen it often during the two years he had spent on the Penelope. Odysseus was shaping the face of his wife in the sand.

Behind him Helikaon heard Glaukos mutter an oath as he tripped over a rock.

The Mykene warriors had seemed surprised when he had invited them to meet the king. The courtesy had evidently been unexpected and Argurios had almost thanked him. Helikaon smiled as he recalled the moment. The Mykene’s tongue would have turned black, he thought, if forced to utter a pleasantry.

Argurios moved alongside him, moonlight gleaming on the elaborately embossed bronze discs of his cuirass. ‘This king is a friend of yours?’ he asked.

‘All reasonable men are my friends, Argurios.’

Argurios’ expression hardened. ‘Do not bait me. It would not be wise.’

‘Why would I bait you?’ answered Helikaon coldly. ‘All reasonable men are my friends, for I seek no enemies. I am a trader, not a plunderer.’

Argurios looked at him closely. ‘You are a man who has earned the hatred of all Mykene. You should understand there will be great joy when your death is announced.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ replied Helikaon, pausing in his stride and turning towards the warrior. ‘There is great joy in Mykene when anyone suffers or is dispossessed. You are a people who thrive on murder and the sorrow of others.’

Argurios’ hand grasped the hilt of his sword. For a moment Helikaon believed he was about to challenge him. Then Argurios spoke, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. ‘The Law of the Road forbids me to rise to that insult. Repeat it on the beach and I will kill you.’ With that he strode off, Glaukos running to catch up with him. Zidantas moved alongside Helikaon and sighed.

‘What merry company you have chosen for us,’ he said.

‘I didn’t choose them, Ox. Odysseus suggested we bring them.’

‘Why?’

‘Perhaps because somewhere ahead on the road will be Mykene killers seeking my blood.’

‘Oh that makes wonderful sense,’ muttered Zidantas. ‘We are facing murderers so Odysseus gets us to bring them reinforcements. Let’s just go back to the beach.

We can return with more men.’

‘You know, Ox, in some ways you are just like the Mykene. You take no interest in other cultures. No, we are not going back to the beach. We will walk on – and see what transpires.’

‘This is not a good place for a fight,’ Zidantas pointed out. ‘One wrong step and a man would be pitched over the side. It is a long way down.’

Helikaon did not answer. Increasing his pace, he kept close to the Mykene. Up ahead the path twisted to the left. Steps had been cut into the stone. At the top, Helikaon knew, the road widened. There were several caves there where armed men could hide.

‘Soon?’ whispered Zidantas.

‘At the top of these steps, I would think. Do not attack them, Ox. Wait and see what happens first.’

Keeping close behind the two warriors they climbed the steps. Up ahead Argurios reached the top and suddenly paused. Helikaon came alongside him. Standing before them were six warriors, all clad in leather breastplates and carrying short swords. They did not rush in, and seemed confused and uncertain. One of them looked at Argurios. ‘Step aside, brother, for our business is not with you.’

‘I would do that gladly, idiot!’ snapped Argurios. ‘But you know the Law of the Road. If a man walks in company with other travellers then he is obliged to face dangers alongside them.’

‘That is a Mykene law for Mykene travellers,’ argued the man.

‘I am in the company of Helikaon,’ said Argurios. ‘Now I loathe him as much as you do, but attack him and I will, by the law, be obliged to fight alongside him. You know me, and you know my skills. All of you will die.’

‘We have no choice,’ said the man. ‘It is a matter of honour.’

Argurios’ sword rasped from its scabbard. ‘Then die as a man of honour,’ he said.

‘Wait!’ said Helikaon, stepping forward. ‘I wish for no blood to be shed here, but if a fight is necessary, then let us settle it with single combat.’ He pointed at the warrior standing before Argurios. ‘You and I, Mykene. Or any of your comrades you care to choose.’

‘I will fight you, Vile One!’ said the man.

Helikaon drew his sword.

Raising his blade, the warrior attacked. Helikaon stepped in, blocking a thrust, and hammered his shoulder into the warrior’s chest, hurling him back. The Mykene charged again, his sword hacking and slashing. Helikaon blocked and countered with ease. The man was not skilled with a blade, and tried to compensate by sheer ferocity. Helikaon waited for the right moment, then blocked a wild cut and grabbed the man’s sword wrist. Curling his leg behind the knee of his opponent he threw him from his feet. The man landed heavily on his back.

Helikaon’s sword touched the fallen man’s throat. ‘Is it over?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ answered the man, hatred in his eyes. Helikaon stepped back and turned towards the others.

‘You heard him,’ he said, sheathing his sword. ‘It is over.’

A movement from his left caused him to turn sharply. The man he had spared had risen silently to his feet and was rushing at him, sword raised. There was no time to draw his own blade. Then Argurios leapt between them, his sword slashing through the attacker’s neck. The man fell back with a gargling cry, blood spraying from his open jugular. As the dying warrior’s body spasmed Helikaon turned to the five remaining men. ‘Return to your ship,’ he ordered them. ‘There is only death here for you, with no hope of victory.’

They stood very still, and Helikaon saw they were preparing themselves to attack. Then Argurios spoke.

‘Sheathe your swords! It would weigh heavily on my heart if I were forced to kill another Mykene. And carry this treacherous creature with you,’ he said, pointing to the corpse. Helikaon saw the men relax. They scabbarded their blades and shuffled forward, lifted the dead man, and made their way back to the steps.

Argurios, coldly furious now, marched to confront Helikaon. ‘Did you know they would be here? Is that why you invited me, Trojan?’

‘Firstly, Argurios, I am a Dardanian. As an ambassador to this side of the Great Green it might be worthwhile for you to understand that not all who dwell in these lands are Trojans. There are Maeonians, Lykians, Karians and Thrakians. And many more. Secondly, is it likely that I would have walked this path with two Mykene warriors had I known there were six more waiting to kill me?’ Argurios let out a long sigh. ‘No, you would not,’ he admitted. He looked into Helikaon’s eyes. ‘You have been blessed with luck twice tonight. Such good fortune cannot last.’

ii

The contradiction that was Kygones the Fat King sat on a high-backed chair, his skeletal frame clad in a simple, unadorned tunic. He was picking at his meal, his wary eyes scanning his guests. The two Gyppto ambassadors had hardly touched the food, and were locked in conversation, their voices low. The merchant from Maeonia was eating enough for three, shovelling the food into his cavernous mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks, gravy from the meat staining his several chins. The Dardanian prince, Helikaon, was sitting silently beside the fork-bearded Zidantas, and the two Mykene warriors with them had helped themselves to cuts of beef, ignoring the finer delicacies on display: the honey-dipped sweetmeats, the peppered sheep’s eyes, the seared kidneys, marinated first in wine.

Helikaon also ate sparingly, and seemed lost in thought.

The king cast his weary gaze over the other guests, most of them merchants from outlying lands, bringing gifts of silk, or glass, or – more important – objects of gold and silver.

Kygones scratched at his pockmarked face and eased himself back against the chair, wishing the time to pass. A servant moved alongside him, filling his goblet with clear water. The king glanced at the man, and nodded his thanks. There was a time when Kygones would have sold his soul for the chance to be a palace servant; to be sure of at least one meal a day and to sleep under a roof, away from wind and rain.

The interminable banquet finally came to a close. Servants carried away the dishes and replenished the wine cups, and Kygones clapped his hands for the entertainment to begin. Female dancers from Kretos moved across the mosaic floor of the megaron, swaying rhythmically to the music from several lyres, their bodies slim and lithe, their naked breasts firm. Oil glistened on their skin. The dance grew wilder, the women twirling and leaping. The guests banged the table in time to the music. Kygones closed his eyes, his mind drifting back through the years. His father had assured him that hard work and dedicated service would lead to happiness for any peasant. Like most youngsters he had believed his father, and had toiled on the small farm from dawn to dusk every day. He had seen his mother age before his eyes, watched two brothers die, seen his three older sisters sold into servitude, and finally witnessed his father being murdered by Gypptos during the third invasion. That was when Kygones discovered the real secret of success.

It lay not in scratching at the land with sharpened sticks, but in grasping a sword in a strong hand.

The music faded, the women moving gracefully away. Acrobats replaced them, and jugglers, and finally a bard from Ugarit, who told a tale of magical beasts and heroes. It was a dull tale, and Kygones found himself wishing he had invited Odysseus to the feast.

The two Gypptos rose as the bard was still speaking, bowed low to Kygones and left the megaron. The bard’s voice faded away as the men walked past him, and Kygones saw that the display of bad manners had unnerved the man. Lifting his hand he urged the storyteller to continue, his own thoughts meanwhile straying to his departing guests.

The Gypptos were an odd pair. They had arrived with gifts: a gold-inlaid ivory wrist band and a jewel-encrusted dagger. And though they spoke of trade and shipments of spices, they were not merchants. Kygones had waited to hear the real reason for their visit, and had suppressed a smile when the older one finally said, ‘There is one small matter, King Kygones, that my master instructed me to make known to you.’ He had spoken then of a criminal who had escaped justice in Egypte, following the slaying of two Royal Guardsmen. There followed a description of the man, tall, wide-shouldered, dark-bearded. ‘He has no skills, save that he is a fighting man, and so may seek to join your army. My master, realizing that to apprehend him would put you at some inconvenience, has instructed me to say that there is a reward offered for his capture. Five gold ingots.’

‘A big man, you say?’

‘Indeed.’

‘I shall instruct my captains to look out for him. He has a name?’

‘He would not use it. We located a ship’s captain who sailed to Kypros with someone of his description. This man called himself Gershom.’

‘Then perhaps you should be seeking him in Kypros.’

‘Indeed we are, and in every other land.’

The bard concluded his tale, which was greeted by polite, if unenthusiastic, cheers. He bowed to the assembly and, red-faced, left the megaron.

Kygones rose from his chair, thanked his guests for honouring him with their company, signalled to Helikaon and the Mykene to follow him, and walked back through the palace to his private apartments. There he wandered onto a high balcony and stared out over the dark sea. The night breeze was cool and refreshing.

‘You seem a little weary, my friend,’ said Helikaon. Kygones swung to greet him.

‘Battles are less tiring than feasts,’ he said. He looked at the two Mykene behind the Golden One. The first was lean, fierce-eyed and battle-hardened. The second was younger, and there was weakness in his eyes. He listened as Helikaon introduced them, then bade them sit. The room was large, with several couches, and two open balconies allowing the night breeze to dissipate the fumes from the lamps on the walls. ‘I have heard of you, Argurios,’ he said, as his guests settled themselves. ‘You held a bridge during the war with the Myrmidons.

Seventeen men you killed that day.’

He noted with satisfaction the surprise on the man’s face. ‘I had not thought the story would have travelled so far,’ said Argurios. ‘And it was only nine.

The others were merely wounded and removed from the fighting.’

‘Tales of heroes are often exaggerated,’ said Kygones. ‘You are a close companion, I understand, of King Agamemnon.’

‘I have the honour to be a Follower.’

‘You are the second Follower to grace my beach. The lord Kolanos is here also.

You are friends?’

‘Most friendships are forged in battle. I have never fought alongside him,’

replied Argurios.

‘I am told he is now considered the first of Agamemnon’s Followers, and that the king places great trust in him.’

‘All the Followers are trusted,’ said Argurios. ‘They gain their positions through their loyalty to the king, and their services to the land.’

Kygones nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. You do not like him, warrior, he thought. Is it jealousy, or something else? The king sat down on a couch, beckoning his guests to seat themselves. Argurios and Helikaon moved to couches set against the walls, while Glaukos sat with his back to the door.

‘Two of Kolanos’ crew died tonight, one on the beach, and one on the path to my palace,’ said the king.

Argurios remained silent. Kygones turned his attention to Helikaon. ‘I have reprimanded the captain of the guard. He did not allocate enough men to patrol the beach. And now I have a small favour to ask of you, Helikaon, my friend. The intended bride of Hektor has been waiting here for almost ten days. I would dearly like to see her on a ship to Troy.’

Helikaon looked surprised. ‘I thought she was already there.’

‘Well, she is here,’ said Kygones, ‘and I pity Hektor. The time she has spent with me has felt like a season. By the gods she has a tongue on her that could cut through stone. I am amazed that Priam should have sought such a harridan for his eldest son. You’d have to be drunk or drugged before you climbed aboard that mare. Can you take her off my hands?’

‘Of course, my friend. Though I had heard the girl was charming and shy.’

‘Paleste might have been. But she died. Now Hektor has been offered the sister, Andromache. The words charming and shy do not apply.’ Kygones chuckled. ‘She was a priestess on Thera. I have heard stories about those women. They are not lovers of men, that’s for sure.’

‘We have all heard stories about those women,’ said young Glaukos harshly. ‘If true they should be sealed alive in weighted boxes and hurled into the sea.’

Kygones masked his surprise at the man’s vehemence. ‘An interesting thought,’ he said, after a while. ‘Tell me, should the same punishment be meted out to men who seek their pleasures among other men?’

‘I was not talking about men,’ said Glaukos. ‘It is a good woman’s duty to receive sexual pleasure from her husband and no other.’

Kygones shrugged and said nothing. The man was an idiot. He returned his attention to Helikaon. ‘That is a fine sword you are wearing.’

Helikaon drew the blade, reversed it, and offered it to Kygones. There were no embellishments on the reinforced hilt, but the blade was beautifully fashioned, the balance perfection. Hefting it, Kygones stepped back, then slashed it through the air twice. ‘Magnificent. One of the best I have held,’ he said. He tested the edge, then examined the bronze blade under lamplight. His warrior’s eye noted the sheen. Bronze swords were notoriously treacherous. Too soft and they would bend out of shape in a fight. Too hard and they would shatter on impact. But this blade seemed different. ‘Crafted by a master,’ he said. ‘I have never seen the like before.’

As Kygones had anticipated, Helikaon was too sharp not to know what was expected of him. ‘I am glad that you like it, my friend, for I brought it with me as a gift for you,’ he said smoothly.

Lifting the scabbard from the loop at his belt he passed it to the king.

Kygones chuckled. ‘You know the way to an old soldier’s heart. Here!’ he called to Argurios. ‘A warrior such as yourself will appreciate this weapon.’ Flicking his wrist he tossed the blade through the air. Argurios caught it expertly, and Kygones noted the gleam of pleasure in the man’s eyes as he felt the balance of the blade.

‘It is superb.’ The Mykene’s voice was awestruck.

‘Who knows,’ said Kygones, retrieving the blade, ‘I might be using it before long. But for now I will rest.’

The men bowed and walked to the door. ‘Ah!’ the king called out. ‘A moment of your time, Helikaon.’

Argurios and Glaukos left the room. Helikaon waited in the doorway. Kygones indicated he should shut the door and come back inside. ‘Sit down, and let us talk awhile.’

‘I thought you were tired, my friend.’

‘The company of Mykene always tires me.’ Lifting a pitcher of water he filled his goblet. ‘They are an unpleasant people altogether. Hearts like lions, minds like snakes. Which is why I wanted to speak to you privately. Although Argurios strikes me as a better man than most of his race.’ Kygones looked closely at his guest. Helikaon’s face was pale, and there were lines of tension around his eyes. ‘Are you ill, my friend?’

‘No. A little head pain. It is already passing.’

Kygones poured a fresh goblet of water and passed it to Helikaon. ‘Usually I have twice as many soldiers on hand when there are ships beached. However, the Hittites requested five hundred fighting men four days ago and my troops are spread thin.’

‘Five hundred? There are fears of an Egypteian invasion?’

‘It has already happened. A Gyppto army is moving up through Palestine. They have pushed north. Hektor and a thousand Trojan cavalry have joined the Hittites to confront them. The fat Maeonian merchant saw them pass three days ago.

Interesting times lie ahead. The world is about to change, I think. Too many kings. Too many armed men with no employment. The Hittite empire is in its death throes. Something will replace it.’

‘Not Egypte,’ said Helikaon. ‘They are wondrously equipped for desert warfare, but their troops are too lightly armed for battle in northern climes. And Hektor will not be defeated. The Trojan Horse are invincible in battle.’

‘What of the Mykene?’

Helikaon looked surprised. ‘The Mykene empire is in the west. They do not have the ships, or the men, to invade the east.’

‘Agamemnon is a man of new ambitions. However, that is not my most pressing problem at the moment. My immediate concern is the sea. The trading season is almost done, but I am wondering whether the Gypptos will try to land a force on my coast. It would be a fine diversion. To offset this threat I could use…

say… ten galleys until the spring.’

Kygones smiled inwardly as he saw the Golden One’s expression change, his eyes narrowing, his mind weighing the cost. He wouldn’t want to lose the friendship of a powerful king, but equally he would have no wish to find himself at odds with the power of Egypte. As a trader he needed access to Egypteian ports to sell cargoes of olive oil, decorated copper vessels, and Mykene jars. From those ports he would load Egypteian wares, like gold, salt, alabaster and papyrus.

Kygones leaned back. He knew what Helikaon was thinking. Such a raid, with its attendant disadvantages, was extremely unlikely, while leasing galleys and crews to Kygones would provide income during the lean winter months, when trading on the Great Green was minimal.

‘Ten would not be enough to prevent an invasion,’ Helikaon said, suddenly.

‘I have hired others. That is why Kolanos is here. His three galleys are now part of my fleet. I have other captains sailing here for the winter.’

‘I will sell you ten ships,’ said Helikaon. ‘They will then be yours to command as you see fit. I will buy them back in the spring for the same price – as long as they are undamaged. You must supply your own sails. The Black Horse of Dardanos will not be seen to take part in any war.’

‘And the crews?’

‘They will be like the Mykene, mercenaries. Your treasury will pay them fighting wages. One hundred copper rings for each man.’

‘Pah! What if there is no fighting? Fifty rings a man.’

‘Ten ships, ten crews, one hundred rings a man. Come, come, my friend, you know this is fair. You just cannot resist haggling.’

‘Fair? Why don’t you just rip the shirt from my back and steal my boots too?’

‘I gave you those boots last spring.’

Kygones laughed. ‘So you did. Damned good boots they are too. Very well, Helikaon, I will agree to seventy rings a man. But only because I like you.’

‘What are you paying the Mykene?’

‘Sixty.’

For a while Helikaon said nothing, his face becoming mask-like, showing no emotion at all. Kygones cursed inwardly. He had spoken without thinking. The amount was correct, but it was too low, and had aroused the Golden One’s suspicions. Then Helikaon appeared to relax. He shrugged. ‘Friends must not fall out over such matters,’ he said. ‘Seventy rings it is. I will send the galleys from Troy.’

‘Excellent! And now I really will take to my bed,’ said the king. ‘May your travels be blessed with fine winds and fair skies.’ As Kygones spoke he realized he actually meant it. He had always liked Helikaon.

Such a shame then that he had to die tonight.

i

Leaving the apartments of Kygones, Helikaon walked back through the megaron, where the remains of the food were being cleared away. He looked around for Zidantas, then summoned a servant. ‘Did you see my companion, the big man with the forked beard?’

‘No, lord.’

Moving on, he asked several others. Finally a stoop-shouldered servant with watery eyes supplied an answer. ‘I saw him talking to Captain Galeos, then he left.’

‘Where will I find Captain Galeos?’

Following the man’s directions, Helikaon left the megaron and emerged onto an outside terrace. The night air was crisp with the promise of rain, and a cool wind was blowing from the sea. Helikaon paused to stand by the walkway rail and gaze down at the beach. Fires were still burning, but most of the sailors, who would be working hard from dawn’s first light, were now asleep. Many of the stalls were covered by canvas sheets, their owners, wrapped in blankets, sitting by them, watching for thieves. As he stood, breathing in the sweet air, Helikaon thought through the events of the night.

It had been surprising that the Mykene had tried to kill him on the Fat King’s beach. Kygones was not a forgiving man. Transgressors had their throats cut. The second attack, so close to the palace, bordered on the stupid. Or at least that was what he had thought.

Now he knew otherwise. Kygones had hired the Mykene to patrol his waters, and he had done so cheaply. In the moment that Kygones let slip the price, Helikaon knew he was betrayed. Mykene fighting men like Kolanos did not sell their services without receiving a good blood price. They would earn more by piracy and raiding. They had accepted sixty rings because there was something larger and more valuable offered to balance the fee.

His own life.

Everything fell into place then. The loss of five hundred men to the Hittite army would not have depleted Kygones’ force so greatly as to reduce the number of men patrolling the beach. And even if it had, there would still have been soldiers around the crowd when Odysseus told his tale. In fact there had been none.

Also there had been too few torches on the cliff path, and no soldiers there i either.

Kygones needed no extra galleys. He had merely delayed Helikaon so that Argurios and Glaukos would return without him. There was now no need to find the captain of the guard. Helikaon knew what had happened. Zidantas had been told Helikaon was staying the night at the palace. Ox had therefore returned to the beach.

The crowning moment of the betrayal had been when Kygones deprived Helikaon of his only weapon. He felt his anger rise – not at Kygones, but at himself. How could he have been so foolish? All the clues had been there, and he had not seen them. He stood for a while, until the anger passed, and he began to think more clearly. Kolanos would have sent more men to wait on the cliff path, so either he remained where he was until the dawn, or he found another way down. At first the thought of staying at the palace seemed the more obvious solution. Surely Kygones would not risk angering Troy by actively participating in the death of one of its allies. Yet, as he thought it through, he realized he could be killed in the palace, and his body dumped on the cliff path. Kygones might already have issued orders to trusted men.

Once on the beach, surrounded by his own men, Helikaon would be safe. But how to get there?

ii

The Mykene warrior Kolanos had never been a patient man. The night was almost gone, and his men had not returned. So, donning sword and helmet, he walked swiftly along the beach, following the line of the cliffs towards the path. The moon emerged from behind a thin screen of clouds. He saw then that his tunic was spattered with blood, spray patterns dotting the pale fabric. There was blood also on his hands. Pausing, he scooped up some sand to rub them clean. Most of the sailors on the beach were asleep, save for a few sitting around fading campfires playing knucklebone dice. To his right was the Xantbos campfire. He saw Argurios sitting there, staring out at the sea. Anger flared. He had never liked the man. His notions of honour were ludicrous. Enemies were to be killed by whatever means. How he could have defended Helikaon was a mystery Kolanos would never understand. When Agamemnon heard of it he would be furious. And Kolanos would ensure the king did hear of it. Argurios might revel in his role as a Follower now, but he would be stripped of that honour. With luck, depending on Agamemnon’s mood, he might also be declared outside the law, his estates forfeit, a blood price on his head. Irritation touched him then. That would be too much to hope for. Argurios, for all his stupid clinging to the rituals of the past, was still a Mykene hero. Kolanos strode up the cliff path. Near the top, almost within sight of the palace gates, he found the five men he had assigned to kill Helikaon. They were half hidden in the shadows of a deep cleft in the rock. Kolanos approached them. The bulky form of Habusas the Assyrian stepped into the moonlight. ‘No sign of him, lord,’ he said.

‘Has anyone passed?’

‘A few sentries. Some whores.’

Kolanos moved back into the shadows. Habusas followed him, keeping his voice low. ‘Maybe he stayed the night.’

‘If he does Kygones will have him killed, and his body thrown to the beach. Let us hope he comes. I want to see the bastard’s face when my knife rips out his eyes.’

‘Someone coming!’ whispered one of the men. Kolanos peered through the gloom. A soldier wearing a conical helmet and carrying a club on his shoulder was strolling down from the palace.

‘Go and ask him about Helikaon,’ ordered Kolanos.

Habusas called out to the man, then walked across. They spoke for a little while, then Habusas returned.

‘He said the Trojan went back to the king’s apartments. That’s all he knew.’

Kolanos glanced at the sky. There was no more than an hour of darkness left.

‘We’ll wait a while longer,’ he said.

Time drifted by. Kolanos’ irritation grew. Had Kygones changed his mind? Had he decided not to kill Helikaon?

Then Habusas lightly tapped his arm and pointed up the trail. A man wearing a dark chiton had emerged from the palace gates, and was beginning the walk down to the beach.

‘Grab him and pin his arms,’ said Kolanos, drawing his knife.

As the figure came closer Habusas stepped out, blocking the way. Other men moved around the startled newcomer, hustling him to stand before Kolanos.

His dark hair was close-cropped, his face heavy and fleshy. Kolanos swiftly sheathed his blade. ‘Where did you get that tunic?’ he asked roughly, recognizing the gold embroidery round the neck and sleeves. Instead of answering, the man turned to run. Habusas and two of the Mykene grabbed him and hauled him back to face Kolanos.

‘I asked you a question. Answer it!’

‘From the Trojan prince, lord.’

‘Why did he give you his garment?’

‘We exchanged clothes. I am a soldier of the king. He said he wanted to play a joke on his friends, and borrowed my uniform and my club. He said I could come down to the beach tomorrow and he would return everything.’

Bile rose in Kolanos’ throat. Stepping back he looked at Habusas. ‘Send this man to the beach. By the fast route.’

The Mykene dragged the struggling soldier to the cliff edge. In desperation he clawed at them. Habusas punched him twice, half stunning him. Kolanos ran in, knife in hand, and plunged the blade through the man’s chest, then dragged it clear. Mortally wounded, the soldier fell to his knees. The Mykene rushed in and kicked him from the cliff edge. His body plummeted down to the rocks below.

The sky was growing lighter now.

‘No more knives in the dark,’ said Kolanos. ‘We will take him at sea.’

iii

Helikaon stepped off the cliff path and strode across the rocky sand. He was tired now, but lifted by the fact that he had fooled the Mykene. Kolanos himself had been waiting there in the dark, with five of his men. It was a great compliment that they believed such force would be necessary.

The conical helmet slid sideways on his head, for he had not tightened the chin straps, and the bronze-reinforced leather breastplate was too large, chafing the skin of his shoulders. He felt clumsy as he walked across the beach towards the Xanthos fire. Then he stumbled, the strap of his right sandal snapping. Kicking it clear, he walked on.

Most of the men were asleep when he approached. Pulling off the helm, he tossed it to the sand, then unbuckled the breastplate. Oniacus saw him. ‘You were better dressed when you set out,’ he volunteered.

‘Long day tomorrow – you should be sleeping,’ Helikaon told him, then strolled off to the Xanthos. He climbed onto the rear deck. Two men were sleeping there, a third keeping watch. Helikaon opened a deck hatch and stepped down into the stygian gloom below. He found his chest more by feel than sight and lifted the lid. Reaching in, he felt around for a spare tunic, then returned to the upper deck and removed the soldier’s calf-length linen garb. Donning his own clothes once more, he looked back at the palace.

It was a surprise that Kygones should have betrayed him. Not that they were friends, but the business they conducted together was profitable, and for the Fat King to collude in his murder he must have been offered a huge sum. No pirate could have afforded to bribe the king – not even Kolanos. No, the riches would have been promised on behalf of Agamemnon. Helikaon could make no sense of it. More than a year had passed since he had killed Alektruon, and he had done nothing since to offend the Mykene king. However, the reason for Agamemnon’s new enmity was secondary now. The real question was: how many other kings on the trade routes had been offered a fortune to conspire in his death? How many pirate chiefs? Or assassins?

His own father, Anchises, had been slain by such a man. And mutilated. The killer had slashed a sharp blade across the king’s throat, and then cut off his ear. How he had entered the palace remained a mystery. No guards reported seeing a stranger, though one man said he saw a shadow move on the high eastern wall.

He assumed it was a trick of the light.

Even now, nine years later, Helikaon still had agents scouring the towns and cities of the Great Green seeking clues to the assassin and the man who hired him.

Movement caught Helikaon’s eye. The Mykene galleys were being pushed back into the water, and he saw the blond Kolanos standing on the beach. The Mykene looked up, and their eyes met.

‘Enjoy your day, Golden One!’ shouted Kolanos. ‘It will be one to remember!’

Helikaon ignored him, and continued to watch as the Mykene crewmen swarmed aboard their vessels. The three black galleys were long and sleek, each with fifty rowers positioned on the upper decks. Bronze-headed rams had been fitted

to the prows. Kolanos was the last to wade out into the surf, and haul himself aboard his ship. Huge red eyes had been painted on the timbers of the upcurved prow, giving the galley a demonic appearance.

As the ships moved out into the bay, the rowers leaned in to their oars and the crews began to dismantle the masts. Helikaon knew then that they would be waiting for the Xanthos outside the bay. Galleys were more manoeuvrable in battle with their masts down. And they wanted him to know, otherwise they would have left their masts up until they were out of sight.

It was a challenge, and one that could not be ignored.

Kolanos had every reason to believe the day would be his. The Mykene galleys were smaller and faster than the Xanthos, and he had three times as many fighting men.

But he did not know of the genius of Khalkeus, the Madman from Miletos.

The sun cleared the eastern cliffs, turning the sky to coral and gold.

Striding back along the central deck, Helikaon climbed to the stern and gazed down on the beach, scanning the faces of his men.

Where in Hades is Ox? he thought.

i

An hour earlier Andomache had climbed the long cliff path, thinking of the seer who had predicted her destiny. Odysseus was right: the man had not been entertaining. Yet how had he known she was a priestess of Thera? Perhaps, she thought, I should have called out to the man with one sandal. She smiled. To discover what? That he was a farmer’s son from the low country, or married with seven noisy children? She walked on, her spirits lighter. The conversation with Odysseus had been more than pleasant. It was like water on a parched tongue to meet someone of wit and intelligence, who was also warm and amusing. The Fat King had a mind like a dagger, but there was no humanity in him – or none that she could perceive.

As she climbed the path she found herself thinking of the blue-eyed man who had been attacked. He was about to speak to her when the knifeman charged in. Andromache wondered what he was going to say. Would it have been a gentle greeting, or merely a coarse request for sex on the sand? She would never know. At the top of the stone steps she saw blood on the rocks. There was a smeared patch on the edge of the path, above the drop to the rocks below. Andromache ignored it and continued on to the fortress gates. Once through, she climbed the stairs to the apartments she had been allocated.

Her slim, dark-haired servant girl, Polysia, was waiting inside. In the torchlight she looked strained and nervous, and her relief at seeing Andromache was palpable. She ran forward. ‘Oh, where have you been? I was worried sick. I thought you had been abducted!’

‘I went for a walk on the beach,’ said Andromache.

‘You shouldn’t have. There has been murder tonight.’

Andromache nodded. ‘I know. When men are gathered together is there not always a murder, or a fight, or a rape?’

Polysia’s brows creased. ‘I don’t understand. Knowing that, why did you go?’

Andromache moved to the table and filled a clay goblet with wine and water. ‘Why not? I cannot change the world of men, and I have no wish to hide in a cave.’

‘I would have been in such trouble had you gone missing. The king would have had me whipped… or killed.’

Andromache put down her wine, walked over to the girl. A wisp of dark hair had fallen over her brow. Andromache brushed it back from her face, then leaned in and kissed her on the lips. ‘But I haven’t gone missing,’ she said. ‘I am here, and all is well.’ Polysia blushed. ‘And now you can go to your bed,’ Andromache told her. ‘I shall sleep for a while.’

‘Would you like me to stay with you?’

‘Not tonight. Go now.’

When Polysia had left Andromache walked to the balcony and gazed down on the beach below. Already the sky was lightening. She saw the three Mykene galleys being pushed out, men clambering aboard. Removing her clothes, she laid them over the back of a chair then climbed into the bed. Sleep came swiftly, and she dreamt of Kalliope. They were swimming in the bay at night. It was a good dream.

Then Kalliope began to call her Princess, which was strange, for they were all princesses on Thera.

‘Princess!’

Andromache’s eyes opened, and she saw Polysia by the bedside. Through the open balcony she could see the sky was clear and blue, the sun bright. Andromache struggled to sit, her mind disoriented. ‘Fetch me some water,’ she said. Polysia did so, and she drank deeply.

‘There is terrible trouble,’ said Polysia. ‘The king is furious, and there are soldiers on the beach.’

‘Slow down,’ Andromache urged her. ‘What trouble?’

‘More killings. One of the palace guards was stabbed and thrown from the cliff, and a sailor has been horribly mutilated. They cut off his head, someone told me.’

‘This is truly a savage place,’ whispered Andromache. Rising from the bed she walked naked to the balcony and breathed deeply. The air was fresh and cool.

‘You should come in. Someone might see you.’

Andromache turned. The dreams of Kalliope still burned in her, and her body felt warm and uneasy. ‘And what would they see?’ she asked the servant girl.

Once again Polysia blushed. ‘You are very beautiful,’ she whispered.

Andromache laughed. ‘Yesterday I was plain, and now everyone is telling me I am beautiful.’ Drawing Polysia to her feet she kissed her again. This time the girl’s lips parted, and the kiss was deep.

Then someone began pounding at the door. ‘Are you dressed?’ came a man’s voice.

She recognized it as Kygones’.

‘Wait a moment,’ she called. Polysia helped her into her long green gown, then the servant ran to the door, opened it, and stepped back, head bowed.

Kygones entered. His face was pale and tension clung to him like a cloak. ‘You will be leaving for Troy today,’ he said. ‘Gather your belongings and I will take you to the beach.’

‘It should be an exciting walk,’ she said. ‘I understand someone is killed every few moments on your beaches.’

His face hardened. ‘Last night was exceptional,’ he said. ‘We are not savages here.’

‘But someone was beheaded, I understand.’

‘Be ready as soon as you can,’ he said, then stalked from the room. Andromache turned back to Polysia.

‘I think you would enjoy life on Thera,’ she told her.

‘I wish you were not leaving,’ answered the girl sadly.

‘Perhaps we will meet again. I hope so. Now help me gather my belongings, Polysia. The king is impatient.’

ii

Kygones was in no mood for conversation as he walked down the hill path alongside Andromache. Twenty soldiers followed them, two of them carrying the chests containing Andromache’s clothes. As he walked Kygones kept his hand on the hilt of the bronze sword Helikaon had given him. He was hoping it would not be necessary to use it.

How, in the name of Zeus, had the Golden One known the assassins would be waiting?

The Fat King wished he had never listened to Kolanos, nor allowed thoughts of Agamemnon’s gold to tempt him. The gold was worth more than two years of trading with Helikaon’s ships, and the Golden One’s death would not severely affect his profits. Someone else would have inherited the ships, and they would still use Blue Owl Bay. It had seemed so simple. Keep his soldiers back and allow Kolanos to kill Helikaon on the beach. When that failed he had invited the Golden One to the palace. Surely the assassins on the cliff path could kill him. But no. That left only the trip back to the beach.

Kygones had even managed to divest Helikaon of his sword – and still he had evaded assassination. The king shivered, and wondered if the gods themselves were protecting the Golden One.

The biggest question, however, and the one that filled his mind as he walked to the shore was: does he know?

And then there were the other deaths. The palace guard’s murder was senseless.

It took no great wit to realize that Kolanos, or one of his men, angry at missing the chance to kill Helikaon, had vented his fury on the poor unfortunate who had changed clothes with him.

But the headless corpse. That was another matter entirely. The body had been covered in cuts and burns, and had been disembowelled before the beheading. The wrists were bound, the skin around the binding ripped and torn, showing how the tortured man had writhed and struggled in his agony.

It was an act of barbarity that even Kygones found hard to take. Kill a man, yes, but torture and mutilation? No civilized man should involve himself in such vileness. What would be the effect on Helikaon, he wondered? He glanced back at his soldiers. They had been warned to watch for any sign of hostility.

The beach was still crowded, but there was little movement, and the mood there was sombre. Word had obviously spread. Kygones struggled to stay calm as he approached the Xanthos. Helikaon was standing talking with the Ithakan king, Odysseus. In the background Kygones could hear the sound of hammers and saws coming from the great ship. He looked up, but the decks were too high to see where the noise originated. Helikaon and Odysseus ceased their conversation as Kygones came closer.

The king looked into Helikaon’s eyes and shuddered inwardly. His gaze was cold, and it seemed to the king that the temperature dropped as those eyes met his.

‘I regret the death of your man,’ said the king. Helikaon did not reply for a moment, and the silence grew. Kygones saw that he was staring intently at Hektor’s bride-to-be. ‘Allow me to introduce Andromache, daughter of the king of Thebe Under Plakos.’

‘You are to marry Hektor?’ he said.

‘That is my father’s command,’ she replied. He fell silent again, and Kygones pressed on.

‘You agreed last night to offer her passage to Troy.’

Helikaon did not look at the king. His gaze remained locked on the face of Andromache. ‘You must travel with Odysseus,’ said Helikaon. ‘Three warships are waiting outside the bay. They will seek to finish what they began last night.’

Kygones spoke again. ‘Kolanos is… a savage. He is no longer part of my fleet.’

And still the Golden One failed to respond. Instead he turned away to stare out to sea. Then followed a moment so bizarre that Kygones’ stomach turned. The prince knelt down by a blood-drenched sack in the sand. Opening it he lifted forth a severed head. It had been mutilated, the eyes gouged out. Congealing blood covered the stump of the neck, and stained Helikaon’s hands. ‘You remember my friend, Zidantas,’ he said, his voice conversational and calm, his expression unchanged. Shifting his hold, he held the head against his chest. The movement caused a severed vein to open. Blood dripped sluggishly onto his blue tunic, but he did not seem to notice. In the silence that followed Kygones could hear his own heart beating. Then Helikaon spoke again. ‘Zidantas came to this place in good faith, seeking rest for the night. He came to this bay because it is well known that King Kygones keeps it safe. His soldiers patrol it. They are everywhere, preventing fights. Not last night, though. Last night this good man was lured away from your palace. Then he was tortured. Then he was killed.’

Kygones’ throat was dry. He licked his lips. ‘I explained about the lack of soldiers,’ he said. ‘And I share your pain at the loss of a crewman. However, think of Andromache, my friend. This grisly display must surely be upsetting for her.’

Helikaon seemed puzzled. ‘Are you upset, goddess?’ he asked. ‘Does the sight of my friend, Zidantas, cause you distress?’

‘No,’ she answered calmly. ‘I did not know him. He must have been a good man, though, for his loss to hurt you so.’

Kygones saw the softness of her words breach Helikaon’s defences. A muscle in the prince’s cheek twitched as he fought for control. Lifting the head to his face he kissed the brow, then returned it to the bloody sack. ‘Yes, he was a good man,’ he said. ‘Father to six daughters. He was loyal and he was brave, and he deserved better than to die like this, murdered by Mykene savages.’

‘Yes, he was murdered by savages,’ said a voice. ‘Do not seek to brand all Mykene with this monstrous act.’

Kygones swung to see the warrior Argurios moving through the crowd.

‘You are not welcome here,’ said Helikaon. ‘I see your friend Glaukos has left with Kolanos and his murderers. Perhaps you should have joined them. Then we could have met at sea, and you could have tried for your revenge.’

‘It is true that I wish to avenge Alektruon,’ said Argurios. ‘But I would do it facing you, sword to sword. I am no back-stabber, Helikaon. And no torturer either.’

‘Ah,’ said Helikaon, ‘a good man, then, and a hero. Perhaps you would like to accompany us as we hunt down Kolanos and bring him to justice. We will not have far to go.’

Kygones saw Argurios’ expression harden. ‘Kolanos deserves to die,’ he said, ‘but I cannot raise my sword against another Follower. I will, however, report this atrocity to my king. You should remember, though, Helikaon, that Kolanos is not the first to sever a head and put out the eyes.’

Helikaon nodded. ‘There is truth in that, though it is a Mykene truth, and that means it is twisted beyond recognition. Alektruon was a barbaric murderer, killed cleanly in single combat, following an unprovoked attack on a neutral vessel. Zidantas was a sailor, overpowered and tortured. His hands were bound.

The blood upon his face shows his eyes were gouged out while he still lived.’

Helikaon paused, then spoke again. ‘Last night you proved your honour and saved my life. For that I am in your debt. Therefore you are safe, Argurios. However, as I said before, you are not welcome here.’

Kygones looked at the Mykene warrior, who was standing stiffly, his hand upon his sword. Then he spun on his heel and stalked away.

Helikaon swung back to Kygones. ‘This is no longer a safe haven for honest sailors,’ he said. ‘My ships’ captains will be instructed to avoid your bays.’

With that he took up the blood-drenched sack and strode to the Xanthos.

Kygones felt sick. The loss of income from Helikaon’s fifty ships would be a huge blow to his treasury. Within a year he would be unable to pay his mercenaries, and that would mean the bandits in the high country would begin once more to raid caravans passing through his territory. More loss of income.

Men from the Xanthos and the Penelope moved forward to push the great ship from the beach. As it floated clear the last of the crew swarmed up the ropes, and the rowers took up their positions. The mysterious hammering continued. As the Xanthos inched back, then swung, Kygones saw that several wooden structures were being added to the decks. But by now the king didn’t care what they were building. He felt as if he had been stabbed, and his lifeblood was flowing to the beach.

Odysseus spoke then, his words cold. ‘Ithakan ships will beach here no more either, Kygones. When word gets out others will come to the same conclusion.’ Kygones did not reply and Odysseus strode away. All along the beach there was an unusual lack of activity. No other ships were being launched. They all knew what was about to take place beyond the bay. And they would wait until the battle was over.

iii

Andromache remained silent as she walked alongside Odysseus. The interplay between the men had been fascinating to observe, and there were undercurrents she could not identify. Kygones had been nervous when he approached Helikaon.

Why should that be? Although she disliked the Fat King, he was not a timid man, nor one easily frightened. On the walk to the beach he was tense, and had warned his men to watch for signs of hostility. Why would he expect hostility? It was not his soldiers who had attacked Helikaon. Odysseus too seemed different today.

Sadder and older. ^>he glanced at him as they walked to the remains of the Penelope’s campfire. He looked fearful, his face pale, his manner subdued.

There was a group of men round the fire as they approached, and a tawny-haired young boy, his face ashen, his eyes wide. Odysseus knelt down by him.

‘The Penelope is a good ship, Xander. A ship of legend. You will be able to tell your grandchildren you sailed on her.’

The boy looked up. ‘Why did they do that to Zidantas?’

‘Listen to me, lad. You could spend a lifetime trying to understand the works of evil men. Their joys are not ours. They love to inflict pain, create suffering, cause harm and death. It empowers them, for beneath the skin they are empty and worthless. Zidantas will walk the Elysian Fields in eternal sunshine. For the gods love a good man.’

‘I just want to go home,’ said the boy miserably.

‘Me too,’ Odysseus told him. ‘But for now go and get yourself some breakfast, and bring me a slab of sweet pie from the stall yonder.’

Two soldiers arrived and laid Andromache’s chests down on the sand. She thanked them and they moved away. Then Odysseus turned and watched the Xanthos sailing across the bay.

He wandered down to the shoreline. Andromache joined him there, and they stood in silence for a while, watching the new sun reflected in fragmented gold on the blue of the sea.

‘What is wrong, Odysseus?’ she asked him. ‘Is it the coming battle? Do you fear for your friend?’

Odysseus shivered suddenly. ‘I am filled with fear, but not for his safety.

Helikaon is a fighter, but there are depths to the man which should never be plumbed.’

‘I do not understand you.’

He sighed. ‘Sometimes when a fear is voiced the gods are listening, and they make it real. So let us wait and see whether my fears are groundless.’

Andromache stood with him as the Xanthos was eased back from the bay into deeper water. After a while Xander returned with a slab of pie. Odysseus thanked him.

When the boy had gone the Ithakan king stood silently. ‘Why did they do that to his friend?’ asked Andromache.

‘To make Helikaon angry, to rob him of reason. To draw him out in a rage.’ He swore softly. ‘Mostly, though, Kolanos did it because he likes to inflict pain.

He is a wretch.’

‘It seems to have succeeded. Helikaon does seem… broken by the loss.’

‘It won’t succeed. I know Helikaon. When he sails out his mind will be calm.’ He forced a smile. ‘He called you goddess again.’

‘I know. It surprises me that I have not heard his name before.’

‘Ah, you probably have. Helikaon is what his friends call him. His name is actually Aeneas, and he is a prince of Dardania.’

‘You are right, Odysseus, I have heard that name. The man who didn’t want to be a king.’

‘Far more to it than that,’ said Odysseus. ‘Less about what he might have wanted, and more about honouring his father. Not that the bastard deserved such a son. Anchises was a vile man. Should have been born with scaled skin like a lizard. He had dispossessed Helikaon, and had named his other son, Diomedes, as his heir.’

‘Why?’

‘A long story. I’ll tell you about it on the voyage to Troy. However, Anchises was murdered on the night we sailed into his bay. Helikaon had been a crew member on the Penelope for two years, and we had just beached below his father’s fortress. The assassin struck that night. With the king dead and the named heir still an infant the situation was rife for civil war. A nation can have only one king. And you know what would happen in most kingdoms?’

‘The child and his mother would be killed,’ said Andromache. ‘Or men loyal to the queen would try to assassinate Helikaon.’

‘Exactly. Some of the queen’s followers arrived on the beach, intent on killing him. Other loyal men gathered round to stop them. The men of the Penelope had weapons in their hands. They would have fought for Helikaon, for they loved him.

Still do. There should have been a battle.’ Odysseus chuckled. ‘By the balls of Ares, you know what he did? At seventeen! He ordered everyone to sheathe their weapons, approached the men who had come to kill him, and told them to take him to the queen. She was in her apartments, surrounded by loyal guards. She was terrified, for Halysia – though a sweet girl – is not a strong woman. Helikaon told her the child would be safe, and that she would not be harmed. He then pledged to follow his father’s wishes, and swore allegiance to Halysia and Diomedes. He was standing there unarmed, completely in her power, and yet he had won. His authority had overwhelmed them all. That and the sincerity he radiated.

Over the next few months he reorganized the kingdom, appointing new counsellors to serve the queen. No battles, no civil war, no killings. Unusual, you agree?’

‘Yes it is,’ she said. ‘Why did he do it?’

‘You must ask him that. He might even tell you.’ Odysseus moved to the shoreline and sat down on a rock. ‘There’ll be no ships sailing for a while,’ he said. ‘So we will breakfast here.’ He began to eat the pie Xander had brought.

‘Tell me of Helikaon,’ said Andromache, seating herself close by. ‘Does he have children?’

Odysseus chuckled. ‘You mean is he wed? No. He is waiting for love. I hope he finds it.’

‘Why would he not? He is young and rich and brave.’

‘Yes, he is brave, but love requires a different kind of courage, Andromache.’

She smiled. ‘That makes no sense to me.’

Odysseus shrugged. ‘There is one act a warrior prays he will never be forced to submit to, and yet must if he is to know love.’

‘This is another riddle, and I am not good with riddles,’ she said.

‘Few are. Warriors fear surrender. They are proud and defiant. They will fight to the death for what they believe in. They will struggle to conquer. Love is not about conquest. The truth is a man can only find true love when he surrenders to it. When he opens his heart to the partner of his soul and says: “Here it is! The very essence of me! It is yours to nurture or destroy.” ‘

Andromache looked into the face of the ugly king, and felt a great warmth for him. ‘Ah, Odysseus,’ she said. ‘Now I see why Penelope loves you.’

He reddened. ‘I talk too much,’ he grumbled.

‘You think Helikaon is frightened to love?’

‘He is a fine man. But he was once a child of tragedy and sorrow. It left its mark on him.’

They stood in silence for a while. Then Andromache said, ‘He is a friend of Hektor, you said.’

‘More than that. They are closer than brothers. For a year Helikaon lived in Troy, building his fleet. He stayed with Hektor. Even rode with the Trojan Horse once, so I’m told. They are a sight to see. Best horsemen anywhere. You like horses?’

‘I love to ride.’

‘Then you will adore living with Hektor. No-one knows more about horses, or breeds finer mounts. Horses are his passion.’

‘Now that is a disquieting thought,’ she said, drily.

Odysseus laughed. ‘And following on from your comment last night: Hektor doesn’t get drunk, and only belches to be polite. As to rushing off to wars, I never met a man who likes war less, or does it better. Left to himself Hektor would stay on his horse farm and never ride to battle.’

‘You like him.’

‘Aye, I do, Andromache. In a violent world he is the bright morning after a storm. He will do his best to make you happy.’

‘My happiness is not in the gift of others. I will be happy, or I will not be happy. No man will supply it, or deprive me of it.’

‘You live by a hard philosophy, Andromache. You are right, though, in that not one of us is responsible for the happiness of others. Ironically, we can be responsible for another’s unhappiness.’ He glanced out to the bay, to see the Xanthos moving out onto open sea.

‘I think they will rue what they did to Zidantas,’ he said. Then he sighed. ‘We may all come to rue it.’

i

On The deck of the Xanthos the crew were working feverishly. Four more of Khalkeus’ new weapons had been carried from the hold in sections and were now, under the watchful eye of Oniacus, being bolted to the deck. Men not working on construction were donning leather breastplates and helmets, and gathering up bow, quiver and sword. Helikaon buckled on his bronze armour. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a powerful black-bearded figure approach. His heart lifted, and for a moment he thought it was Zidantas. Then, as the harsh realization of Ox’s death struck him anew, his stomach twisted. The Egypteian, Gershom, moved alongside him.

‘You should have stayed ashore,’ said Helikaon, more harshly than he intended.

‘Only fighting men are needed here.’

The man’s dark eyes flashed with anger. ‘I am no sailor, Helikaon, but you will find I know how to fight.’

‘Show me your hands.’ Gershom held them out. Both were bandaged, and there was blood seeping through the linen. ‘You couldn’t grip a sword.’

‘No,’ admitted Gershom. ‘But by your leave I will carry the club of Zidantas. I knew him only a day, but he came into the sea for me and I owe him. And Oniacus tells me that Zidantas always stood by you in a fight.’

Helikaon nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It will be as you say, Gershom. Remain close to me.’ Then he called out to Oniacus. The black-haired oarsman ran to the rear deck.

‘You know what to expect outside the bay?’ asked Helikaon.

‘Poseidon’s Trident, I would think,’ answered Oniacus.

‘That would be my guess also,’ Helikaon agreed. ‘Kolanos will have the command ship, so he will be the first prong, and furthest from us. As soon as we are in sight of him I want oars at six. We will close on him at maximum speed.’

Oniacus looked worried. ‘That will leave both the other galleys with sight of our beams,’ he observed. ‘If they come at us fast we could be breached.’

Helikaon ignored the comment. ‘I want men with ropes and hooks at prow and stern, along with ten of our best fighters, ready to grapple.’

Oniacus nodded. ‘You think the Crippled Swan will work against three enemies?’

‘No. We’ll need to take out at least one with the Fire Hurlers. Concentrate on i the command ship. It must be forced back, otherwise we could be rammed on two sides. I think the Xantbos could withstand it, but each of those galleys carries more than fifty fighting men. If they all close with us we’ll be outnumbered more than two to one.’

‘I’ll be on the prow weapon myself. I won’t miss, Golden One.’

Oniacus had been the most proficient of the men trained secretly in Kypros on the new weapons. The men chosen had been the steadiest and least excitable. It was vital, Helikaon knew, that no careless sailor was put in charge of nephthar.

The acrid, foul-smelling liquid was highly flammable, and almost impossible to douse once lit. It burned even more brightly when water was added to it. The Xantbos carried eighty clay balls, wax-sealed, filled with the precious liquid.

Each ball, the size of a man’s head, cost the equivalent of five good horses, eight oxen, or twenty untrained slaves. And an accident could turn the Xantbos into a ship of flame.

‘Make sure the men know exactly what we plan,’ Helikaon warned. ‘We won’t know until the last moment which galley we’ll Swan. I don’t want to see our oars splintered as we turn, or a nephthar ball dropped.’

‘Yes, lord,’ answered Oniacus.

Helikaon walked back to where the nail-studded club of Zidantas had been laid by the steering oar. Hefting it, he passed it to Gershom.

‘Find yourself a breastplate and helmet,’ he said, ‘and then return here.’

Gershom moved away and Helikaon turned to the steersman, the straggly-bearded Epeus. ‘Where is your shield?’

‘I forgot it, lord.’

‘Fetch it now,’ ordered Helikaon, stepping in and laying his arm over the oar.

‘You’ll be the man every Mykene bowman will try to bring down.’

‘They’ll not hit me,’ replied Epeus, with a wide smile. ‘A seer told me last night that I’d live to be eighty years old, with ten sons and thirty grandchildren.’

‘May he be proved right,’ said Helikaon. ‘Now get your shield.’

As the steersman ran down to the main deck Helikaon stared out over the bay, and the open sea beyond. The sky was blue and clear, the sea calm, the winds light.

The Mykene galleys were not in sight yet. He guessed that one would be just beyond the headland to the south, the other two behind the outer island, one to the west, the other north. They would come at the Xanthos in a trident formation, knowing that no matter how manoeuvrable the ship might be she could not protect her beams from a three-pronged attack. The object would be for one –

perhaps two – of the galleys to ram the Xanthos amidships, breaching the hull.

Once she was caught, and taking on water, the other galleys could close in and their warriors swarm aboard. Kolanos knew his ships would be faster than the heavier Xanthos, but he would not know of the Fire Hurlers, nor of the supply of nephthar they could deliver.

Epeus returned, a tall, curved shield strapped to his left arm. It was of black and white cowhide, edged with bronze, and would stop most shafts. Behind him came Gershom. The man was heavily muscled, and, though not as large as Zidantas, he looked as if he would have little difficulty wielding the heavy club.

Thoughts of Zidantas weighed heavily on Helikaon’s heart as the ship moved across the bay.

Argurios was right. Had it not been for the mutilation of Alektruon’s corpse, Zidantas would probably have been alive now. Guilt tore at him. In all his life he had known three true friends: Odysseus, Hektor and Zidantas. Now one of them was gone.

Gershom’s voice cut through the darkness of his thoughts. ‘What is the Crippled Swan?’ he asked.

‘A manoeuvre to swing the ship. Imagine a swan with a broken wing trying to take off from a lake. It spins round and round. With a well-trained crew a galley can do the same. If it works, follow me, for I will be boarding one of their vessels, and the fighting will be fierce.’

‘I will be alongside you, Golden One.’

Helikaon glanced back towards the beach. He could see the now tiny figure of Odysseus standing at the water’s edge, the beautiful Andromache beside him.

Andromache’s face appeared in his mind. Odysseus often told stories of men who fell in love in an instant. Helikaon had not believed in such miracles. Love, surely, had to grow, through understanding and fellowship, mutual trust and the arrival of children. Now he was not so sure.

Last night the sight of her alone had struck him like a thunderbolt. Today, even while suffering the loss of his friend, he had gazed upon her and felt a longing he had never before experienced. A sudden and embarrassing thought came to him.

He looked at Gershom.

‘Were you close enough on the beach to hear my conversation with the Fat King?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you recall what I called the woman with him?’

‘You called her goddess.’

Helikaon swore.

‘She had a hard face,’ said Gershom.

‘Not hard. Strong. She is a woman of passion and also compassion. Intelligent, courageous and fiercely loyal.’

‘You know her then? I thought she was a stranger to you.’

‘My soul knows her.’

Slowly the Xanthos slid past the island at the mouth of the bay. Ahead, about half a mile to the west, Helikaon saw the Mykene command ship of Kolanos, the painted red eyes on the prow seeming to stare malevolently at the Xanthos. ‘You see him, Oniacus?’ Helikaon called out.

‘I do, lord,’ Oniacus shouted back. Helikaon scanned the Xanthos. Four men stood by each of the five Fire Hurlers. Archers knelt close by. Small copper braziers full of burning coals had been set near the deck rails, and the bowmen were busy tying oil-soaked rags around their shafts.

‘Ready the nephtharV ordered Helikaon. Each crew sprang to action, two men drawing back the weapons and hooking trigger ropes over jutting release bars.

Then they carefully eased the large wax-sealed clay pots into the firing baskets.

The Xanthos moved out onto open sea. From the south another galley emerged from behind the headland, oars cutting into the water as it surged towards them.

Helikaon glanced to his right. The third galley came into sight from the north, sunlight gleaming on the bronze ram beneath its prow.

‘Ready oars!’ bellowed Helikaon, transferring his gaze west to the Mykene command ship. It was beating towards them at speed some quarter-mile ahead.

‘Oars six!’

The Xanthos leapt forward as the sixty oars cut into the still blue water.

Picking up speed, the ship headed directly for Kolanos and his blood-eyed command galley. The enemy vessel from the south was closing, but the Xanthos moved beyond it.

Fire arrows sailed overhead. Several burning shafts struck the deck. Crewmen covered them with wet cloths, beating out the flames. The galley from the north was being rowed hard, hurtling towards the starboard beam. It would strike like a spear through the heart, the bronze ram splintering the hull. Helikaon stood grimly, watching the advancing ship.

All depended now on the skill of the nephthar crews.

In that moment a great calm descended on the Dardanian prince. It seemed that time slowed. Beside him, armed with the nail-studded club of Zidantas, stood the powerful form of Gershom. There was no fear apparent in the man.

Oniacus shouted out a command and a Hurler on the starboard side was released, the wooden throwing arm snapping upright. The nephthar ball sailed through the air, shattering on the deck of the advancing Mykene vessel. Another ball followed it. It struck true, breaking into shards and spraying acrid liquid over the port-side oarsmen. Archers on the Xanthos dipped their shafts into the fire braziers, then loosed flaming arrows, which arched across the sky to the galley’s deck.

A fire began, spreading along the planks with impossible speed. Flames erupted everywhere. One of the rowers, who had been doused with nephthar, was beating at his blazing tunic, but then his hands began to burn. Two enemy crewmen hurled buckets of water on the flames. The result was devastating. With a great whoosh the fire billowed higher. Men ran back in panic from the oars and the galley slewed to port.

As the Xanthos glided by, archers sent bronze-tipped shafts into the panicked crew of the enemy ship. The Mykene, many of them with their clothes aflame, leapt into the sea. Even here the fires continued to burn. Two more clay balls struck the centre of the galley’s deck. Nephthar had flowed down to the hold, and the deserted ship wallowed on the sea, fire burning through its timbers.

The other four Hurlers let fly – this time at the command ship of Kolanos. Three of the balls flopped into the sea, but one hit the port side, spraying its contents over the rowers. More fire arrows flew through the sky. One shaft landed on the deck, and Helikaon could see crewmen beating at the flames with blankets and cloaks. These too began to blaze.

Then the command ship veered away, and fled the fight.

Helikaon was about to order his rowers to give chase when an arrow flew past him, thudding into the deck rail. Glancing back he saw the last of the galleys closing from behind. Anger ripped through him. There was no time to pursue the fleeing Kolanos.

‘Crippled Swan starboard!’ he yelled. The rowers on the port side plunged their oars deep into the water, then lifted them clear, while to starboard the crew rowed with all their might. The Xantbos lurched, then swung swiftly. The pursuing galley powered on, seeking to use its ram as the Xanthos showed her beam. But the galley’s captain misjudged the speed of the turn, and as the two ships came together they were almost head on. The starboard Xanthos rowers dragged in their oars. The Mykene were not quick enough, and many of their oars were snapped and shattered as the ships ground together. Several men at the prow of the Xanthos hurled grappling lines down, hooks biting into the deck rails of the galley below. Other men towards the stern did the same. Hauling on the ropes they drew the ships together.

Helikaon donned his bronze helm and ran down the centre deck to where the toughest of his crew waited, swords in hand. Clambering over the rail Helikaon shouted: ‘For Zidantas!’ Then he leapt down to the Mykene deck below. Enemy crewmen, armed with swords, axes and clubs, rushed to meet the invaders.

Helikaon hammered his blade across the face of the first, shoulder charged another man to the deck, then leapt forward to drive his sword through the chest of a third. A fourth attacker aimed a blow at his head – but a huge club swept him from his feet. Gershom surged into the melee, the club of Zidantas thundering against bronze armour and hurling men to the deck. More Xanthos warriors clambered down to the galley, and the fighting was brutal and bloody.

Helikaon killed another crewman. The battle was fierce now. Three warriors rushed at him. He parried a sword thrust from the first – then his foot slipped on the blood-smeared deck. As he fell he threw himself forward, rolling into the legs of another attacker, knocking the man from his feet. Twisting onto his back he blocked a plunging sword, and hacked a blow at the man’s legs.

A slim crewman from the Xanthos, carrying two curved daggers, charged in, slicing a blade through the attacker’s throat. Helikaon surged to his feet.

Gershom was to his right, the crewman to his left. Mykene warriors rushed at the three.

Helikaon charged to meet the new threat. Gershom and the crewman leapt forward with him, and together they clove into the Mykene ranks, cutting and killing.

Helikaon saw the Mykene Glaukos, sword in hand. Fury swept through him and he cut down the opponent facing him, and ran at the Mykene warrior. Arrows began to rain down from the decks above.

As Helikaon reached Glaukos he heard someone shout: ‘We surrender! Throw down your weapons, lads! For pity’s sake! We surrender!’ From all around came the clatter of weapons hitting the deck.

Glaukos stared hard at Helikaon for a moment. Then, seeing the men all around him had ceased to fight, he dropped his sword to the deck. Helikaon looked at the young man, and saw the hatred in his eyes.

‘You sailed with Zidantas,’ said Helikaon. ‘You knew what they had done to him.

Yet you joined them. I should gut you like a pig. But I will not. I will take you to where Argurios waits.’

Glaukos did not reply. Helikaon swung away from him. The slim crewman who had come to his rescue was cleaning his dagger blades. Helikaon approached him. The man was not young, in his forties at least.

‘My thanks to you. What is your name?’

The man’s eyes were dark, his expression calm. ‘I am Attalus.’

‘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 bloodstained blanket, it was laid at the centre 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 upon the honour of the Mykene. The torture and murder of Zidantas had been sadistic and unnecessary. And 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 then the assassination might have succeeded, and a good man like 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 too 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,’ said Xander 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 himself 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 stew 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,’ said Odysseus coldly.

‘He saved my life,’ said Xander 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 equally 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 crew 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 armour, then his hair was ablaze. Now the screams were awful to hear, as men burnt 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,’ agreed Odysseus sadly.

Black smoke was swirling now over the doomed galley, as the Xanthos slowly made her way back out to sea.