ii
Xander was embarrassed. For the third time that morning he had been sick, vomiting over the side. His head throbbed, and his legs felt unsteady. The Penelope was much smaller than the Xantbos – just half her length and very cramped, so there was nowhere to go to hide his shame. The rowers’ benches were on the main deck and, once the ship was under oars, there was only a narrow passage between the ranks of oarsmen to walk from one end of the ship to the other. Unlike on the gleaming new Xantbos, the oak planks of the deck looked
worn and chipped, and some of the oars appeared warped by the sun and the salt sea.
The mood was gloomy on the tiny foredeck, where he had been told to wait with the other passengers until they reached Troy. On the first day Xander had been excited at the prospect of sailing with the legendary Odysseus, but that excitement had passed swiftly, for there was little for him to do. He watched the land glide by, and listened to the conversation of those around him.
Andromache had been kind to him, and had talked with him of his home and his family. Argurios had said nothing to him. In fact he said little to anyone. He stood at the prow like a statue, staring out at the waves. The old shipwright, Khalkeus, was also gloomy and quiet.
Even the nights were sombre. Odysseus told no tales, and the crew of the Penelope kept to themselves, gambling with dice bones, or chatting quietly to friends. The passengers were left largely to their own devices. Andromache would often walk along the beaches with Odysseus, while Argurios sat alone. Khalkeus too seemed glum and low of spirit.
One night, as they sheltered from heavy rain under overhanging trees back from the beach, Xander found himself sitting with the shipwright. As always, the man seemed downcast. ‘Are you all right?’ Xander asked.
‘I am wet,’ snapped Khalkeus. The silence grew. Then the older man let out a sigh. ‘I did not mean to sound so angry,’ he said. ‘I am still suffering from the results of my actions. I have never had deaths on my conscience before.’
‘You killed someone?’
‘Yes. All those men on the galley.’
‘You didn’t kill them, Khalkeus. You were on the beach with me.’
‘How pleasant it would be if that simple statement were true. You will find, young Xander, that life is not so simple. I designed the Fire Hurlers, and suggested to Helikaon that he should acquire nepbthar. You see? I thought they would be a protection against pirates and reavers. It never occurred to me – stupid man that I am – that they could be instruments of murder. It should have.
The truth is that every invention leads men to say: can I use it to kill, to maim, to terrify? Did you know that bronze was first used to create ploughs, so that men could dig the earth more efficiently? It did not take long, I suspect, before it was used for swords and spears and arrowheads. It angered me when the Kypriots called the Xanthos the Death Ship. But what an apt name it proved to be.’ He fell silent. Xander didn’t want to talk about burning men and death, so he too sat quietly as the rain fell.
By the twentieth day of the journey Xander thought he might die of boredom. Then the sickness had begun. He had woken that morning with a bad headache. His mouth was dry, his skin hot. He had tried to eat a little dried meat, but had rushed away from the group to throw up on the sand.
The day was windless, and a thick bank of mist around the ship muffled the sounds of the oars and the creak of wood and leather. Time crawled by and the Penelope seemed suspended in time and place.
Seated beside him, the old shipwright Khalkeus stared at his hands, turning and turning his old straw hat, mashing the battered brim, and occasionally muttering to himself in a language Xander did not understand. The lady Andromache was facing away from him, looking towards their destination.
An image flashed unwanted into the boy’s mind of the blazing ship, the sound of the screams and the roar of the flames…
He dismissed the image and determinedly thought of his home and his mother and grandfather. Though the sun was obscured by mist he guessed it was well after noon and he imagined his grandfather sitting in the porch of his small white house, shaded by purple-flowering plants, eating his midday meal. The thought of food made his stomach twist.
Delving into his pack he brought out two round pebbles. One was blue speckled with brown like a bird’s egg. The other was white and so translucent he could almost see through it.
‘Are you going to eat them, boy?’
Xander swung round to see Khalkeus gazing at him.
‘Eat them? No, sir!’
‘I saw you looking in your bag and thought you were hungry. When I saw the pebbles I thought you might eat them. Like a chicken.’
‘Chicken?’ the boy repeated helplessly. ‘Do chickens eat pebbles?’
‘They do indeed. It helps to grind the grain they eat. Like millstones in the granary of their bellies.’ The old man bared his few remaining teeth, and Xander realized he was trying to be friendly.
The boy smiled back. ‘Thank you. I didn’t know that. I picked the pebbles up on the beach before I left home. My grandfather told me they are round and shiny because they have been in the sea for hundreds of years, rolling around.’
‘Your grandfather is right. He is obviously a man of intelligence. Why did you choose those two? Were they different from the rest of the stones around them?’
‘Yes. The rest were just grey and brown.’
‘Ah, then these pebbles are travellers, like you and me. They long ago left the seas where they were first made and they have travelled the world. Now they mix with pebbles of a different sort and home is but a dim memory.’
Xander had no answer to this baffling comment, so he changed the subject. ‘Are you going to live in Troy?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I shall purchase a forge and return to my true calling.’
‘I thought you were a builder of ships.’
‘Indeed, I am a man of many talents,’ said Khalkeus, ‘but my heart yearns to work metal. Do you know how we make bronze?’
‘No,’ said Xander, nor did he want to. Bronze was bronze. It didn’t matter to Xander whether it was found in the ground, or grew from trees. Khalkeus chuckled.
‘The young are too honest,’ he said, good-naturedly. ‘Everything shows in their faces.’ Reaching into his pocket he produced a small blue stone. Then he drew a knife of bronze from the sheath at his side. The blade gleamed in the sunlight.
He held up the small stone. ‘From this,’ he said, ‘comes this,’ and he held up the knife.
‘Bronze is a stone?’
‘No, the stone contains copper. First we remove the copper, then we add another metal, tin. In exactly the right amount. Eventually we have a workable bronze.
Sometimes – depending on the quality of the copper – we get poor bronze, brittle and useless. Sometimes it is too soft.’ Khalkeus leaned in. ‘But I have a secret that helps to make the best bronze in all the world. You want to know the secret?’
Xander’s interest was piqued. ‘Yes.’
‘Bird shit.’
‘No, really I would!’
Khalkeus laughed. ‘No, boy, that is the secret. For some reason if you add bird droppings to the process the resulting bronze is hard, but still supple enough to prevent it shattering. That is how I made my first fortune. Through bird shit.’
The curious conversation came to an end when the lookout, high on the crossbeam of the mast, suddenly cried out and pointed to the south. The boy jumped up eagerly and peered in the direction the man indicated. He could see nothing except for the endless bank of blue-grey mist.
Then he heard another shout and saw Odysseus gesturing to him from the aft deck.
