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.’
IV
The Madman from Miletos
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.
