‘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.
V
The Man from the Sea
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.
