David Gemmell: Lord of the Silver Bow

‘Am I your friend?’ she asked him later, as they lay together on her broad bed, her head resting on his shoulder, her thigh across his own.

‘Now and always, Phaedra.’

‘Even when I am old and ugly?’

He stroked her hair. ‘What would you have me say?’

‘The truth. I want to hear the truth.’

Leaning over her he kissed her brow. ‘I do not give my friendship lightly,’ he said, ‘and it does not depend on youth and beauty. If we both live to be old and ugly I will still be your friend.’

She sighed then. ‘I am frightened, Helikaon. Frightened of getting old, frightened of your being killed, or tiring of me, frightened of becoming like Phia’s mother. A long time ago I chose this life, and it has brought me wealth and security. Now I wonder whether I made the right choice. Do you think I could have been happy wed to a farmer or a fisherman and raising children?’

‘I cannot answer that. We make choices every day, some of them good, some of them bad. And – if we are strong enough – we live with the consequences. To be truthful I am not entirely sure what people mean when they talk of happiness.

There are moments of joy and laughter, the comfort of friendship, but enduring happiness? If it exists I have not discovered it.’

‘Perhaps it only comes when you are in love,’ she suggested.

‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘No,’ she lied.

‘Nor I,’ he replied, the simple words sliding like a dagger into her heart.

‘What a sad pair we are,’ she said, forcing a smile, and sliding her hand down over his flat belly. ‘Ah!’ she said, with mock surprise, ‘there is one among us who does not seem sad. Indeed he is beginning to feel rampantly happy.’

Helikaon laughed. ‘You do have that effect on him.’ His hands clasped her waist, lifting her over him, then he drew her down and kissed her deeply.

The storms of the past two days had faded into the west, and the sky was clear and blue, the sea calm, as Spyros rowed his passenger towards the great ship.

After a morning of ferrying crewmen out to the Xanthos Spyros was tired. He liked to tell people that at eighty years of age he was as strong as ever, but it wasn’t true. His arms and shoulders were aching and his heart was thumping as he leaned back into the oars.

A man was not old until he could no longer work. This simple philosophy kept Spyros active, and every morning, as he woke, he would greet the new day with a smile. He would walk out and draw up water from the well, gaze at his reflection in the surface and say: ‘Good to see you, Spyros.’

He looked at the young man sitting quietly at the stern. His hair was long and dark, held back from his face by a strip of leather. Bare-chested, he was wearing a simple kilt and sandals. His body was lean and hard-muscled, his eyes the brilliant blue of a summer sky. Spyros had not seen the man before, and guessed him to be a foreigner, probably a rogue islander or a Kretan.

‘New oarsman, are you?’ Spyros asked him. The passenger did not answer, but he smiled. ‘Been ferrying men like you in all week. Locals won’t sail on the Death Ship. That’s what we call the Xanthos,”1 he added. ‘Only idiots and foreigners.

No offence meant.’

The passenger’s voice was deep, his accent proving Spyros’ theory. ‘But she is beautiful,’ he said, amiably. ‘And the shipwright says she is sound.’

‘Aye, I’ll grant she’s good to look upon,’ said Spyros. ‘Mighty pleasing on the eye.’ Then he chuckled. ‘However, I wouldn’t trust the word of the Madman from Miletos. My nephew worked on the ship, you know. He said Khalkeus wandered about talking to himself. Sometimes he’d even slap himself on the head.’

‘I have seen him do that,’ agreed the man.

Spyros fell silent, a feeling of mild irritation flowering. The man was young, and obviously did not appreciate that the gods of the sea hated large ships.

Twenty years ago he had watched just such a ship sail from the bay. It had made two voyages without incident, then had vanished in a storm. One man had survived. He had been washed ashore on the eastern mainland. His story was told by mariners for some years. The keel had snapped, the ship breaking up in a matter of a few heartbeats. Spyros considered telling this story to the young oarsman. He decided against it. What would be the point? The man had to earn his twenty copper rings, and he wasn’t going to turn back now.

Spyros rowed on, the burning in his lower back increasing. This was his twentieth trip out to the Xanthos since dawn.

There were small boats all around the galley, stacked with cargo. Men were shouting and vying for position. Boats thumped into one another, causing curses and threats to be bellowed out. Ropes were lowered and items slowly hauled i aboard. Tempers were short among both the crew on the deck and the men waiting to unload their cargo boats. It was a scene of milling chaos.

‘Been like this all morning,’ said Spyros, easing back on the oars. ‘Don’t think they’ll sail today. It’s one of the problems with a ship that size, getting cargo up on that high deck. Didn’t think of that, did he – the Madman, I mean?’

‘The owner is to blame,’ said the passenger. ‘He wanted the largest ship ever built. He concentrated on its seaworthiness, and the quality of its construction. He didn’t give enough thought to loading or unloading it.’

Spyros shipped his oars. ‘Listen, lad, you obviously don’t know who you are sailing with. Best not say anything like that close to the Golden One. Helikaon may be young, but he is a killer, you know. He cut off Alektruon’s head and ripped out his eyes. It’s said he ate them. Not someone you want to offend, if you take my meaning?’

‘Ate his eyes? I have not heard that story.’

‘Oh, there’s plenty of stories about him.’ Spyros stared at the bustle around the galley. ‘No point trying to push my way through to the stern. We’ll need to wait awhile until some of those cargo boats have moved off.’

A huge, bald man, his black beard greased and twisted into two braids, appeared on the port deck, his voice booming out, ordering some of the cargo boats to stand clear and allow those closest to offload their cargo.

‘The bald man there is Zidantas,’ said Spyros. ‘They call him Ox. I had another nephew sail with him once. Ox is a Hittite. Good man, though. My nephew broke his arm on the Ithaka a few years back and couldn’t work the whole voyage. Still got his twenty copper rings, though. Zidantas saw to that.’ He turned his face towards the south. ‘Breeze is starting to shift. Going to be a southerly.

Unusual for this time of year. That’ll help you make the crossing, I suppose. If it does get under way today.’

‘She’ll sail,’ said the man.

‘You are probably right, young fellow. The Golden One is blessed by luck. Not one of his ships has sunk, did you know that? Pirates avoid him – well, they would, wouldn’t they? You don’t cross a man who eats your eyes.’ Reaching down he lifted a water-skin from below his seat. He drank deeply, then offered it to his passenger, who accepted gratefully.

A glint of bronze showed from the deck and two warriors came into sight, both wearing breastplates, and carrying helmets crested with white horsehair plumes.

‘I offered to ferry them out earlier,’ muttered Spyros. ‘They didn’t like my boat. Too small for them, I don’t doubt. Ah well, a pox on all Mykene anyway.

Heard them talking, though. They’re not friends of the Golden One, that’s for sure.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Well, it was more the older one. He said it turned his stomach to be sailing on the same ship as Helikaon. Can’t blame him, I suppose. That Alektruon – the one who lost his eyes – was a Mykene too. Helikaon has killed a lot of Mykene.’