David Gemmell - Lord of the Silver Bow

You would like to kill me, Helikaon thought. To avenge Alektruon. But you will come at me face to face, Argurios. No dagger in the back, no poison in the cup.

The young man beside Argurios spoke then, and the warrior swung to face him.

Helikaon continued to watch him. Argurios was not a big man, though his arms were heavily muscled. They were also criss-crossed with many scars of combat.

Stories of heroes were told in every port on the Great Green, spread by sailors who loved tales of combat and bravery. Argurios featured in many of those tales.

He had fought in battles all across the western lands, from Sparta in the south to Thessaly in the north, and even to the borders of Thraki. All of the stories told of his courage, and not one spoke of rape, torture or assassination.

Helikaon’s thoughts swung back to the man who had followed him in Kypros. He’d thought he had the assassin trapped at Phaedra’s house. Zidantas and four other men were waiting beyond the wall. Yet he had avoided them all. Ox said he had disappeared, as if by magic. Helikaon did not believe in magic. The assassin was highly skilled – like the man who had killed Helikaon’s father. No-one had seen him either. He had entered the palace, made his way to the king’s apartments and cut his throat. He had also – inexplicably – sliced away his father’s right ear.

Then he had left. Not one of the guards had seen him. Not one of the servants had noted any strangers present.

Perhaps he too was being hunted by such a man.

He saw the fork-bearded Zidantas approaching, followed by two senior crewmen.

Zidantas climbed to the rear deck. ‘We are ready, Golden One,’ he said. Helikaon nodded. Ox swung away. ‘Ready the oars! Stand by the sail!’ he bellowed. ‘Raise the anchors!’

The crew moved swiftly to their places, the anchor men fore and aft, hauling on the thick ropes, lifting the great stone anchors from the seabed.

Helikaon glanced at the young boy, Xander. He was looking frightened now, his eyes wide and staring. He kept glancing back at the shore.

‘By the mark of One!’ shouted Ox. The banks of oars lifted and dipped.

And the great ship began to glide serenely across the bay.

For the twelve-year-old Xander the trip on the Xanthos represented the greatest adventure of his life. For as long as he could remember he had dreamed of sailing upon the Great Green. High in the Kypriot hills, as he tended his grandfather’s goats, or helped his mother and sisters prepare paints for the pottery dishes they traded in the settlement, he would imagine being on a ship, feeling the swell of the sea beneath his feet. Often, as he wandered along the high ground he would stop, and stare longingly at the vessels heading south towards Egypte, or east to Ugarit – or even to Miletos and the legendary Troy with its towers of solid gold.

He remembered his father, Akamas, and the other sailors launching the Ithaka. He had stood with his grandfather on the beach as the galley floated clear, and watched the oarsmen take up their positions. His father was a great rower, powerful and untiring. He was also, as grandfather often said, ‘a good man to have beside you in a storm’.

Xander recalled the last farewell with agonizing clarity. His father had stood and waved, his red hair glinting like fire in the dawn light. He had died days later in the battle with the savage Mykene pirate, Alektruon. Xander knew he had died bravely, defending his friends and his ship. The Golden One had come to their house in the hills, and had sat with Xander, and told him of his father’s greatness. He had brought gifts for mother and grandfather, and had talked quietly with them both. In this he did them great honour, for Helikaon was the son of a king. He was also a demi-god.

Grandfather scoffed at the story. ‘All these nobles claim descent from the gods,’ he said. ‘But they are men like you and me, Xander. Helikaon is better than most,’ he admitted. ‘Not many highborns would take the trouble to visit the bereaved.’ He had turned away and Xander had seen that he was crying. And he had cried too. After a while grandfather put his arm round Xander’s shoulders. ‘No shame in tears, boy. Your father deserved tears. Good man. I was proud of him always. As I will be proud of you. Next year Helikaon says he will take you in his crew and you will learn the ways of the sea. You will be a fine, brave man, like your father, and you will bring honour to our family.’ ‘Will I be an oarsman, grandfather?’

‘Not for a while, lad. You are too short. But you’ll grow. And you’ll grow strong.’

The year had dragged by, but at last the great new ship was ready, and the crew began to muster. Grandfather had walked with him to the port just before dawn, filling him with so much advice it seemed to be running out of Xander’s ears. ‘Look to Zidantas,’ was one comment he remembered. ‘Good man. Your father spoke well of him. Never shirk any duty Ox gives you. Do your best always.’ ‘I will, grandfather.’

The old man had gazed at the great ship, with its two banks of oars, and its colossal mast. Then he had shaken his head. ‘Be lucky, Xander. And be brave. You will find that bravery and luck are often bedfellows.’

Xander had been rowed out to the ship just as the sun appeared in the east, its light turning the Xanthos to pale gold. It was a beautiful sight and Xander felt his heart surge with joy. This wondrous vessel was to be his ship. He would learn to be a great seaman, like his father. Grandfather would be proud of him. And mother too.

The small rowing vessel came alongside the ship, under the raised bank of oars. There were three other crewmen being ferried out, and they tossed up their sacks of belongings and scaled ropes to the deck. Xander would have done the same, but a sturdy rower moved alongside him. 'Up you go, shortshanks,' he said, lifting Xander up to the lowest oar port. He had scrambled through and fallen over a narrow rowing seat.

It was dark here below decks and cramped, but as Xander's eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw the oarsmen's narrow seats, and the planking against which they would brace their legs for the pull. Putting down his own bag he sat in a rowing seat and stretched out his legs. Grandfather was right. He was too short to brace himself. Next year, though, he thought, I will be tall enough. Gathering his bag he made his way to the upper hatch and climbed out. There were already sailors on board, and two passengers, wearing armour. The eldest was a grim-faced bearded man with cold, hard eyes. Xander had seen men like them before. They were Mykene, the same race as the pirates who had killed his father. Their armies roamed the western lands, plundering towns and cities, taking slaves and gold. Mykene pirates often crossed the sea to raid settlements along the coastline. Grandfather hated them. 'They are a blood-hungry people, and they will one day come to dust,' he had said.

The main cargo hatch was open and Xander saw sailors carrying goods down into the hold: big clay amphorae, filled with wine or spices; large packages of pottery plates, bound in rawhide and protected by outer layers of bark. There were weapons, too, axes and swords, shields and helms. Seamen with ropes were hauling up other goods. Xander moved forward to peer down into the hold. It was deep. A man came up the steps and almost bumped into him. 'Be careful, boy,' he said, as he moved past. Xander backed away from the working crew. He 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.