David Gemmell: Lord of the Silver Bow

The old man looked surprised. ‘I would have thought that even the Gypptos would have heard of Helikaon.’

‘I think I have heard that name. Isn’t he a warrior of the sea? Did he not kill some Mykene pirate?’

The man seemed satisfied. ‘Aye, he is a great fighter.’

‘Why do they call him the Golden One?’

‘He is blessed with unholy luck. Every venture brings in riches, but I think he will have another name after that monstrosity sinks.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘However, we are drifting with the wind now. Let us return to our course. You need a ship.’

‘What would you advise, my friend?’

‘I know a merchant who has a twenty-oar galley – the Mirion – heading for Troy the day after tomorrow. He is short of men. For ten copper rings I’ll take you to him and offer a recommendation.’

‘I don’t have ten copper rings.’

‘You get twenty for a voyage, half when you sign on. Give me that half, and I’ll tell him you are a master oarsman.’

‘It won’t take them long to find out you lied.’

The old man shrugged. ‘By then you’ll be at sea and the merchant will still be on land. When you return you’ll be a fine oarsman, and no-one will be the wiser.’

Gershom had heard of Troy, of its great golden walls and high towers. The hero Herakles was said to have fought a war there a hundred or so years ago. ‘Have you been to Troy?’ he asked the old man.

‘Many times.’

‘It is said to be beautiful.’

‘Aye, it is good to look at. Expensive though. Whores wear gold, and a man is considered poor if he doesn’t own a hundred horses. Copper rings won’t buy you a cup of water in Troy. There’s plenty of other stops on the way there and back, though, boy. There’s Miletos. Now that is a place for sailors. Big-titted whores who’ll sell you their souls for a copper ring – not that their souls are what you’d be looking for. There’s some of the prettiest land you’ll ever see. You’ll have the time of your life, boy!’

Later that day, after the old sailor had found him a place on the Mirion’s crew, Gershom had wandered down to the seafront to look at the ship. He knew nothing about such vessels, but even to his untrained eye it seemed to be lying low in the water. A huge man, bald-headed and with a forked black beard, approached him. ‘Seeking a berth?’ he asked.

‘No. I sail the day after tomorrow on the Mirion.’

‘She is overladen and there’s a storm coming,’ said the big man. ‘Ever worked on a galley?’

Gershom shook his head.

‘Fine craft – if the captain keeps her shipshape, clean of barnacles, and if the crew are well trained. The Mirion has none of these advantages.’ The man peered at him closely. ‘You should sail with me, on the Xanthos.’1

‘The Death Ship? I think not.’

The bald man’s face darkened. ‘Ah well, all men make choices, Gyppto. I hope you don’t come to rue yours.’

Another crack of thunder boomed in the heavens. The wind picked up again.

Gershom carefully rolled onto his stomach and gripped the edges of the driftwood.

To sleep is to die.

The twelve men, in ankle-length cloaks of black wool, stood silently at the cave mouth. They did not speak or move. The early autumn wind was unnaturally chill, but they did not blow warm breath on cold hands. Moonlight shimmered on their bronze breastplates and white crested helmets, on their embossed wrist guards and greaves, and on the hilts of the short swords scabbarded at their waists.

Yet despite the presence of cold metal against their bodies they did not shiver.

The night grew colder, and it began to rain as midnight approached. Hail fell, and clattered against their armour. And still they did not move.

Then came another warrior, tall and stooping, his cloak flapping in the fierce wind. He too was armoured, though his cuirass was inlaid with gold and silver, as were the helmet and greaves he wore.

‘Is he inside?’ he asked, his voice deep.

‘Yes, my king,’ answered one of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep-set grey eyes. ‘He will summon us when the gods speak.’

‘Then we wait,’ replied Agamemnon.

The rain eased away and the king’s dark eyes scanned his Followers. Then he looked into the Cave of Wings. Deep within he could see firelight flickering on the craggy walls, and even from here smell the acrid and intoxicating fumes from the Prophecy Fire. As he watched, the fire dimmed.

Unused to waiting, he felt his anger rise, but masked it. Even a king was expected to be humble in the presence of the gods.

Every four years the king of Mykene and twelve of his most trusted Followers were expected to hear the words of the gods. The last time Agamemnon had stood here he had just interred his father and his own reign was about to begin. He had been nervous then, but was more so now. For the prophecies he had heard that first time had come true. He had become infinitely richer. His wife had borne him three healthy children, though all girls. The armies of Mykene had been victorious in every battle, and a great hero had fallen.

But Agamemnon also recalled the journey his father had made to the Cave of Wings eight years previously, and his ashen face on his return. He would not speak of the final prophecy, but one of the Followers told it to his wife, and the word spread. The seer had concluded with the words: ‘Farewell, Atreus King. You will not walk the Cave of Wings again.’

The great battle king had died one week before the next Summoning.

A woman dressed all in black emerged from the cave. Even her head was covered by a veil of gauze. She did not speak, but raised her hand, beckoning the waiting men. Agamemnon took a deep breath, and led the group inside.

The entrance was narrow, and they removed their crested helmets and followed the woman in single file, until at last they reached the remains of the Prophecy Fire. Smoke still hung in the air and, as he breathed, Agamemnon felt his heart beating faster. Colours became brighter and small sounds – the creaking of leather, the shifting of sandalled feet on stone were louder, almost threatening.

The ritual was hundreds of years old, based on an ancient belief that only on the point of death could a priest fully commune with the gods. So every four years a man was chosen to die for the sake of the king.

Keeping his breathing shallow, Agamemnon looked down at the slender old man lying on a pallet bed. His face was pale in the firelight, his eyes wide and staring. The hemlock paralysis had already begun. He would be dead within minutes.

Agamemnon waited.

‘Fire in the sky,’ said the priest, ‘and a mountain of water touching the clouds. Beware the Great Horse, Agamemnon King.’ The old man sagged back, and the woman in black knelt by him, lifting and supporting his frail body.

‘Offer me no riddles,’ said Agamemnon. ‘What of the kingdom? What of the might of the Mykene?’

The priest’s eyes briefly blazed, and Agamemnon saw anger there. Then it passed, and the old man smiled. ‘Your will prevails here, O king. I would have offered you a forest of truth, but you wish to speak of a single leaf. Very well. Mighty still will you be when next you walk this corridor of stone. Father to a son.’

He whispered something then to the woman, who held a cup of water to his lips.

‘And what dangers will I face?’ Agamemnon asked.

The old priest’s body spasmed, and he cried out. Then he relaxed and stared up at the king. ‘A ruler is always in peril, Agamemnon King. Unless he be strong he will be torn down. Unless he be wise he will be overthrown. The seeds of doom are planted in every season, and need neither sun nor rain to make them grow.