‘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.
