David Gemmell: Lord of the Silver Bow

The Golden One left little to chance.

On the high curve of the prow was a device Argurios had not seen on any other ship. It was a wooden structure, bolted to the deck in four places. It was a curious piece, seeming to have no purpose. A jutting section of timber rose from its centre, topped by what appeared to be a basket. At first he had thought it would be used to load cargo, but on closer examination he realized that the basket could not be lowered over the side. The entire piece was a mystery, which he assumed he would solve during the near month-long journey to Troy.

Argurios glanced towards the rear deck, where Helikaon stood at the great steering oar. It had been hard to believe that any man could have defeated Alektruon the Swordsman. He was a legend among the Mykene. A giant of a man, fearless and mighty. Argurios was proud to have fought alongside him.

Yet the full horror of the day was well known. Argurios himself heard the tale from the single survivor. The man had been brought back to Mykene on a cargo vessel, and was taken before Agamemnon the king. The sailor had been in a pitiful state. The stump of his wrist still bled, and there was a bad odour emanating from it. Skeletally thin, he had a bluish sheen to his lips and he could hardly stand. It was obvious to all that he was dying. Agamemnon had a chair brought for him. The story he told was stark and simple.

The mighty Alektruon was dead, his crew massacred, the legendary Hydra set adrift, its sail and decks ablaze.

‘How did he die?’ asked Agamemnon, his cold, hard eyes staring at the dying sailor.

Argurios remembered the man had shivered suddenly, as the harsh memories returned. ‘We had boarded their vessel and victory was ours. Then the Golden One attacked. He was like a demon. It was terrible. Terrible. He cut three men down, then tore at Alektruon. It was a short fight. He plunged his blade into Alektruon’s neck, then hacked his head from his body. We fought on for a while, but when it was hopeless we threw down our weapons. Then the Golden One, his armour covered in blood, shouted, “Kill all but one!” I saw his eyes then. He was insane. Possessed. Someone grabbed me and pinned my arms. Then all my comrades were hacked to death.’

The man had fallen silent.

‘And then?’ asked Agamemnon.

‘Then I was dragged before Helikaon. He had removed his helmet and was standing there with Alektruon’s head in his hands. He was staring into the dead eyes.

“You do not deserve to see the Fields of Elysium,” he said. Then he stabbed the blade through Alektruon’s eyes.’

The warriors gathered in the Lion’s Hall had cried out in rage and despair as they heard this. Even the grim and normally expressionless Agamemnon had gasped.

‘He sent him blind into the Underworld?’

‘Yes, my king. When the deed was done he hurled the head over the side. Then he turned to me.’ The man squeezed shut his eyes, as if trying to block the remembered scene.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said: “You will live to report what you have seen here, but you will be a raider no longer.” Then, at his command, two men stretched my arm over the deck rail, and the Golden One hacked my hand away.’

The man had died two days after telling his story.

The defeat of Alektruon had tarnished the Mykene reputation of invincibility.

His death had been a sore blow to the pride of all warriors. His funeral games had been muted and depressing. Argurios had gained no satisfaction there, despite winning a gem-encrusted goblet in the javelin contest. There was an air of disbelief among the grieving fighting men. Alektruon’s exploits had been legendary. He had led raids from Samothraki in the north, all the way down the eastern coast as far as Palestine. He had even sacked a village less than a day’s ride from Troy itself.

News of his defeat and death had been met with incredulity. Word had spread through the villages and towns, and people had gathered in meeting places and squares to discuss it. Argurios had the feeling that in years to come all Mykene would remember exactly what they were doing the moment they heard of Alektruon’s passing.

Argurios gazed with quiet hatred at the Golden One. Then he sent a silent prayer to Ares, the God of War. ‘May it fall to me to avenge Alektruon! May it be my sword that cuts the heart from this cursed Trojan!’

The wind stayed favourable, and the Xanthos sped across the waves. Slowly the green island of Kypros faded from sight. On the rear deck, alongside Helikaon, stood the powerful figure of Zidantas. At fifty he was the oldest man in the crew, and had sailed these waters for close to thirty-five years. In all that time, through storms and gales, he had never once been wrecked. Almost all his childhood friends had died. Some had drowned when their vessels foundered. Others had been murdered by pirates. Two had succumbed to the coughing sickness, and one had been killed over a lost goat. Zidantas knew he had been lucky. Today he was wondering whether his luck was running out. The Xanthos had set sail just before midday, and, though the friendly, southerly wind was in their favour now, Zidantas was worried.

Usually a vessel from Kypros, travelling north, would leave no later than dawn, cross the narrowest section of open sea to the rocky coastline of Lykia, and then find a sheltered bay for the night. All sailors preferred to beach their vessels at dusk, and sleep on dry land. The crew of the Xanthos offered no exceptions to this rule. They were brave men, and daring when circumstances demanded it, but all of them had lost friends or kinsmen to the capricious cruelty of the sea gods. They had waved goodbye to comrades setting sail on calm waters beneath a blue sky, never to be seen again in this life. Ferocious storms, treacherous coastlines, pirates, and rocky shoals, all took their toll on the men who lived and worked upon the Great Green.

Out of sight of land the crew grew silent. Many of the rowers emerged from the lower deck to stand at the rail and gaze out over the sea. There was little conversation. Like Khalkeus they began to listen to the groaning of timbers, and to feel the movement of the ship beneath them. And they gazed with fearful eyes around the horizon, seeking any sign of anger in the skies.

Zidantas both shared and understood their fears. They had heard sailors from other vessels mocking this new ship, and issuing dire warnings about the perils of sailing upon it. The Death Ship they called her. Many of the older members of the crew could also recall other large ships being built and sailing to their doom. Zidantas knew what they were thinking. The Xanthos feels fine now, but what will happen when Poseidon swims?

He gazed at the silent men and felt a sudden surge of pride.

Zidantas never sailed with cowards. He could read a fighting man, and had always cast his eye over a crew before joining it. These men were fearful now of the unknown, but if a storm did break, or pirates appeared, they would react with courage and skill. As they had on the Ithaka the day Alektruon attacked.

The memory of that day haunted him still, and he sighed.

White gulls swooped overhead, wheeling and diving above the black horse sail.

The wind picked up. Zidantas glanced at the sky. Sudden storms were notorious during the autumn months, and few trading ships ventured far once summer was over. ‘If the wind changes,’ he said.

‘There was a storm two days ago,’ said Helikaon. ‘Unlikely to be another so soon.’

‘Unlikely – but not impossible,’ muttered Zidantas.

‘Take the oar, Ox,’ Helikaon told him, stepping aside. ‘You’ll feel more at ease with the ship under your control.’

‘I’d feel more at ease back home, sitting quietly in the sunshine,’ grumbled Zidantas.