David Gemmell: Lord of the Silver Bow

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.

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.